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LOVE    STORIES 

MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 


LOVE 
STORIES 


BY 

MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE,"   "BAB,"    "k,"   ETC 


NEW  ^JBT^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Copyright,  1912, 1913,1916,  by  the  Curtis  Publishing  Company 
Copyright,  1912,  by  The  McClure  Publications,  Inc. 
Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Metropolitan  Magazine  Co. 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
I 

Twenty-Two 9 

II 
Jane   .."... 89 

III 

In  the  Pavilion 129 

IV 
God's  Fool 175 

V 
The  Miracle 221 

VI 

"Are  We  Downhearted?    No!" 251 

VII 
The  Game 307 


91294? 


TWENTY-TWO 


l'l   i  I]  ■* 


LOVE  STORIES 


TWENTY-TWO 


THE  Probationer's  name  was  really  Nella  Jane 
Brown,  but  she  was  entered  in  the  training 
school  as  N.  Jane  Brown.  However,  she  meant 
when  she  was  accepted  to  be  plain  Jane  Brown. 
Not,  of  course,  that  she  could  ever  be  really  plain. 

People  on  the  outside  of  hospitals  have  a  curious 
theory  about  nurses,  especially  if  they  are  under 
twenty.  They  believe  that  they  have  been  disap- 
pointed in  love.  They  never  think  that  they  may 
intend  to  study  medicine  later  on,  or  that  they  may 
think  nursing  is  a  good  and  honourable  career,  or  that 
they  may  really  like  to  care  for  the  sick. 

The  man  in  this  story  had  the  theory  very  hard. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  after  the  wall  of  the 
warehouse  dropped,  N.  Jane  Brown  was  sitting  be- 
side him.  She  had  been  practising  counting  pulses 
on  him,  and  her  eyes  were  slightly  upturned  and 
very  earnest. 

There  was  a  strong  odour  of  burnt  rags  in  the  air, 
and  the  man  sniffed.     Then  he  put  a  hand  to  his 

9 


10  ,     LOVE  STORIES 

upper  lip — the  right  hand.  She  was  holding  his 
left. 

"Did  I  lose  anything  besides  this*?"  he  inquired. 
His  little  moustache  was  almost  entirely  gone.  A 
gust  of  fire  had  accompanied  the  wall. 

"Your  eyebrows,"  said  Jane  Brown. 

The  man — he  was  as  young  for  a  man  as  Jane 
Brown  was  for  a  nurse — the  man  lay  quite  still  for 
a  moment.    Then : 

"I'm  sorry  to  undeceive  you,"  he  said.  "But  my 
right  leg  is  off." 

He  said  it  lightly,  because  that  is  the  way  he  took 
things.    But  he  had  a  strange  singing  in  his  ears. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  broken.  But  you  still  have  it." 
She  smiled.  She  had  a  very  friendly  smile.  "Have 
you  any  pain  anywhere4?" 

He  was  terribly  afraid  she  would  go  away  and 
leave  him,  so,  although  he  was  quite  comfortable, 
owing  to  a  hypodermic  he  had  had,  he  groaned 
slightly.  He  was,  at  that  time,  not  particularly  in- 
terested in  Jane  Brown,  but  he  did  not  want  to  be 
alone.    He  closed  his  eyes  and  said  feebly : 

"Water!" 

She  gave  him  a  teaspoonful,  bending  over  him  and 
being  careful  not  to  spill  it  down  his  neck.  Her 
uniform  crackled  when  she  moved.  It  had  rather 
too  much  starch  in  it. 


TWENTY-TWO 11 

The  man,  whose  name  was  Middleton,  closed  his 
eyes.  Owing  to  the  morphia,  he  had  at  least  a 
hundred  things  he  wished  to  discuss.  The  trouble 
was  to  fix  on  one  out  of  the  lot. 

"I  feel  like  a  bit  of  conversation,"  he  observed. 
"How  about  you  2" 

Then  he  saw  that  she  was  busy  again.  She  held 
an  old-fashioned  hunting-case  watch  in  her  hand, 
and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  chest.  At  each  rise 
and  fall  of  the  coverlet  her  lips  moved.  Mr.  Mid- 
dleton, who  was  feeling  wonderful,  experimented. 
He  drew  four  very  rapid  breaths,  and  four  very 
slow  ones.  He  was  rewarded  by  seeing  her  rush  to 
a  table  and  write  something  on  a  sheet  of  yellow 
paper. 

"Resparation,  very  iregular,"  was  what  she 
wrote.    She  was  not  a  particularly  good  speller. 

After  that  Mr.  Middleton  slept  for  what  he  felt 
was  a  day  and  a  night.  It  was  really  ten  minutes 
by  the  hunting-case  watch.  Just  long  enough  for 
the  Senior  Surgical  Interne,  known  in  the  school 
as  the  S.  S.  I.,  to  wander  in,  feel  his  pulse,  approve 
of  Jane  Brown,  and  go  out. 

Jane  Brown  had  risen  nervously  when  he  came 
in,  and  had  proffered  him  the  order  book  and  a  clean 
towel,  as  she  had  been  instructed.  He  had,  how- 
ever, required  neither.  He  glanced  over  the  record, 
changed  the  spelling  of  "resparation,"  arranged  his 


1ST LOVE  STORIES 

tie  at  the  mirror,  took  another  look  at  Jane  Brown, 
and  went  out.     He  had  not  spoken. 

It  was  when  his  white-linen  clad  figure  went  out 
that  Middleton  wakened  and  found  it  was  the  same 
day.  He  felt  at  once  like  conversation,  and  he  be- 
gan immediately.  But  the  morphia  did  a  curious 
thing  to  him.  He  was  never  afterward  able  to  ex- 
plain it.  It  made  him  create.  He  lay  there  and 
invented  for  Jane  Brown  a  fictitious  person,  who 
was  himself.  This  person,  he  said,  was  a  newspaper 
reporter,  who  had  been  sent  to  report  the  warehouse 
fire.  He  had  got  too  close,  and  a  wall  had  come 
down  on  him.  He  invented  the  newspaper,  too,  but, 
as  Jane  Brown  had  come  from  somewhere  else,  she 
did  not  notice  this. 

In  fact,  after  a  time  he  felt  that  she  was  not  as 
really  interested  as  she  might  have  been,  so  he  in- 
troduced a  love  element.  He  was,  as  has  been  said, 
of  those  who  believe  that  nurses  go  into  hospitals 
because  of  being  blighted.  So  he  introduced  a 
Mabel,  suppressing  her  other  name,  and  boasted,  in 
a  way  he  afterward  remembered  with  horror,  that 
Mabel  was  in  love  with  him.  She  was,  he  related, 
something  or  other  on  his  paper. 

At  the  end  of  two  hours  of  babbling,  a  business- 
like person  in  a  cap — the  Probationer  wears  no  cap 
— relieved  Jane  Brown,  and  spilled  some  beef  tea 
down  his  neck. 


TWENTY-TWO 13 

Now,  Mr.  Middleton  knew  no  one  in  that  city. 
He  had  been  motoring  through,  and  he  had,  on  see- 
ing the  warehouse  burning,  abandoned  his  machine 
for  a  closer  view.  He  had  left  it  with  the  engine 
running,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  ran  for  four 
hours,  when  it  died  of  starvation,  and  was  subse- 
quently interred  in  a  city  garage.  However,  he 
owned  a  number  of  cars,  so  he  wasted  no  thought 
on' that  one.  He  was  a  great  deal  more  worried 
about  his  eyebrows,  and,  naturally,  about  his  leg. 

When  he  had  been  in  the  hospital  ten  hours  it 
occurred  to  him  to  notify  his  family.  But  he  put 
it  off  for  two  reasons:  first,  it  would  be  a  lot  of 
trouble;  second,  he  had  no  reason  to  think  they 
particularly  wanted  to  know.  They  all  had  such  a 
lot  of  things  to  do,  such  as  bridge  and  opening  coun- 
try houses  and  going  to  the  Springs.  They  were 
really  overwhelmed,  without  anything  new,  and  they 
had  never  been  awfully  interested  in  him  anyhow. 

He  was  not  at  all  bitter  about  it. 

That  night  Mr.  Middleton — but  he  was  now  of- 
ficially "Twenty-two,"  by  that  system  of  metonymy 
which  designates  a  hospital  private  patient  by  the 
number  of  his  room — that  night  "Twenty- two"  had 
rather  a  bad  time,  between  his  leg  and  his  conscience. 
Both  carried  on  disgracefully.  His  leg  stabbed,  and 
his  conscience  reminded  him  of  Mabel,  and  that  if 


14 LOVE  STORIES 

one  is  going  to  lie,  there  should  at  least  be  a  reason. 
To  lie  out  of  the  whole  cloth ! 

However,  toward  morning,  with  what  he  felt  was 
the  entire  pharmacopoeia  inside  him,  and  his  tongue 
feeling  like  a  tar  roof,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  stick 
to  his  story,  at  least  as  far  as  the  young  lady  with 
the  old-fashioned  watch  was  concerned.  He  had  a 
sort  of  creed,  which  shows  how  young  he  was,  that 
one  should  never  explain  to  a  girl. 

There  was  another  reason  still.  There  had  been 
a  faint  sparkle  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  lady  with 
the  watch  while  he  W3S  lying  to  her.  He  felt  that 
she  was  seeing  him  in  heroic  guise,  and  the  thought 
pleased  him.     It  was  novel. 

To  tell  the  truth,  he  had  been  getting  awfully 
bored  with  himself  since  he  left  college.  Every- 
thing he  tried  to  do,  somebody  else  could  do  so  much 
better.  And  he  comforted  himself  with  this,  that 
he  would  have  been  a  journalist  if  he  could,  or  at 
least  have  published  a  newspaper.  He  knew  what 
was  wrong  with  about  a  hundred  newspapers. 

He  decided  to  confess  about  Mabel,  but  to  hold 
fast  to  journalism.  Then  he  lay  in  bed  and  watched 
for  the  Probationer  to  come  back. 

However,  here  things  began  to  go  wrong.  He 
did  not  see  Jane  Brown  again.  There  were  day 
nurses  and  night  nurses  and  reliefs,  and  internes  and 
Staff  and  the  Head  Nurse  and  tjie  First  Assistant 


TWENTY-TWO  15 

and — everything  but  Jane  Brown.  And  at  last  he 
inquired  for  her. 

"The  first  day  I  was  in  here,"  he  said  to  Miss 
Willoughby,  "there  was  a  little  girl  here  without 
a  cap.  I  don't  know  her  name.  But  I  haven't  seen 
her  since." 

Miss  Willoughby,  who,  if  she  had  been  disap- 
pointed in  love,  had  certainly  had  time  to  forget  it, 
Miss  Willoughby  reflected. 

"Without  a  cap?  Then  it  was  only  one  of  the 
probationers." 

"You  don't  remember  which  one?" 

But  she  only  observed  that  probationers  were  al- 
ways coming  and  going,  and  it  wasn't  worth  while 
learning  their  names  until  they  were  accepted.  And 
that,  anyhow,  probationers  should  never  be  sent  to 
private  patients,  who  are  paying  a  lot  and  want  the 
best. 

"Really,"  she  added,  "I  don't  know  what  the 
school  is  coming  to.  Since  this  war  in  Europe  every 
girl  wants  to  wear  a  uniform  and  be  ready  to  go  to 
the  front  if  we  have  trouble.  All  sorts  of  silly  chil- 
dren are  applying.  We  have  one  now,  on  this  very 
floor,  not  a  day  over  nineteen." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Middleton.  He  felt  that 
this  was  the  one.  She  was  so  exactly  the  sort  Miss 
Willoughby  would  object  to. 

"Jane  Brown,"  snapped  Miss  Willoughby.     "A 


16  LOVE  STORIES 

little,  namby-pamby,  mush-and-milk  creature,  afraid 
of  her  own  shadow." 

Now,  Jane  Brown,  at  that  particular  moment, 
was  sitting  in  her  little  room  in  the  dormitory,  with 
the  old  watch  ticking  on  the  stand  so  she  would  not 
over-stay  her  off  duty.  She  was  aching  with  fatigue 
from  her  head,  with  its  smooth  and  shiny  hair,  to 
her  feet,  which  were  in  a  bowl  of  witch  hazel  and 
hot  water.  And  she  was  crying  over  a  letter  she  was 
writing. 

Jane  Brown  had  just  come  from  her  first  death. 
It  had  taken  place  in  H  ward,  where  she  daily 
washed  window-sills,  and  disinfected  stands,  and 
carried  dishes  in  and  out.  And  it  had  not  been  what 
she  had  expected.  In  the  first  place,  the  man  had 
died  for  hours.  She  had  never  heard  of  this.  She 
had  thought  of  death  as  coming  quickly — a  glance  of 
farewell,  closing  eyes,  and — rest.  But  for  hours  and 
hours  the  struggle  had  gone  on,  a  fight  for  breath 
that  all  the  ward  could  hear.  And  he  had  not  closed 
his  eyes  at  all.    They  were  turned  up,  and  scaring. 

The  Probationer  had  suffered  horribly,  and  at  last 
she  had  gone  behind  the  screen  and  folded  her  hands 
and  closed  her  eyes,  and  said  very  low : 

"Dear  God — please  take  him  quickly." 

He  had  stopped  breathing  almost  immediately. 
But  that  may  have  been  a  coincidence. 

However,  she  was  not  writing  that  home.     Be- 


TWENTY-TWO  17 

tween  gasps  she  was  telling  the  humours  of  visiting 
day  in  the  ward,  and  of  how  kind  every  one  was  to 
her,  which,  if  not  entirely  true,  was  not  entirely  un- 
true. They  were  kind  enough  when  they  had  time 
to  be,  or  when  they  remembered  her.  Only  they  did 
not  always  remember  her. 

She  ended  by  saying  that  she  was  quite  sure  they 
meant  to  accept  her  when  her  three  months  was  up. 
It  was  frightfully  necessary  that  she  be  accepted. 

She  sent  messages  to  all  the  little  town,  which 
had  seen  her  off  almost  en  masse.  And  she  added 
that  the  probationers  received  the  regular  first-year 
allowance  of  eight  dollars  a  month,  and  she  could 
make  it  do  nicely — which  was  quite  true,  unless  she 
kept  on  breaking  thermometers  when  she  shook  them 
down. 

At  the  end  she  sent  her  love  to  everybody,  includ- 
ing even  worthless  Johnny  Fraser,  who  cut  the  grass 
and  scrubbed  the  porches;  and,  of  course,  to  Doctor 
Willie.  He  was  called  Doctor  Willie  because  his 
father,  who  had  taken  him  into  partnership  long  ago, 
was  Doctor  Will.  It  never  had  seemed  odd,  al- 
though Doctor  Willie  was  now  sixty-five,  and  a 
saintly  soul. 

Curiously  enough,  her  letter  was  dated  April  first. 
Under  that  very  date,  and  about  that  time  of  the 
day,  a  health  officer  in  a  near-by  borough  was  mak- 


18 LOVE  STORIES 

ing  an  entry  regarding  certain  coloured  gentlemen 
shipped  north  from  Louisiana  to  work  on  a  railroad. 
Opposite  the  name  of  one  Augustus  Baird  he  put  a 
cross.  This  indicated  that  Augustus  Baird  had  not 
been  vaccinated. 

By  the  sixth  of  April  "Twenty- two"  had  pro- 
gressed from  splints  to  a  plaster  cast,  and  was  be- 
ing most  awfully  bored.  Jane  Brown  had  not  re- 
turned, and  there  was  a  sort  of  relentless  maturity 
about  the  nurses  who  looked  after  him  that  annoyed 
him. 

Lying  there,  he  had  a  good  deal  of  time  to  study 
them,  and  somehow  his  recollection  of  the  girl  with 
the  hunting-case  watch  did  not  seem  to  fit  her  in 
with  these  kindly  and  efficient  women.  He  could 
not,  for  instance,  imagine  her  patronising  the  Se- 
nior Surgical  Interne  in  a  deferential  but  unmistak- 
able manner,  or  good-naturedly  bullying  the  First 
Assistant,  who  was  a  nervous  person  in  shoes  too 
small  for  her,  as  to  their  days  off  duty. 

Twenty-two  began  to  learn  things  about  the  hos- 
pital. For  instance,  the  day  nurse,  while  changing 
his  pillow  slips,  would  observe  that  Nineteen  was 
going  to  be  operated  on  that  day,  and  close  her  lips 
over  further  information.  But  when  the  afternoon 
relief,  while  giving  him  his  toothbrush  after  lunch, 
said  there  was  a  most  interesting  gall-stone  case  in 
nineteen,  and  the  night  nurse,  in  reply  to  a  direct 


TWENTY-TWO  19 

question,  told  Nineteen's  name,  but  nothing  else, 
Twenty-two  had  a  fair  working  knowledge  of  the 
day's  events. 

He  seemed  to  learn  about  everything  but  Jane 
Brown.  He  knew  when  a  new  baby  came,  and  was 
even  given  a  glimpse  of  one,  showing,  he  considered, 
about  the  colour  and  general  contour  of  a  maraschino 
cherry.  And  he  learned  soon  that  the  god  of  the 
hospital  is  the  Staff,  although  worship  did  not  blind 
the  nurses  to  their  weaknesses.  Thus  the  older  men, 
who  had  been  trained  before  the  day  of  asepsis 
and  modern  methods,  were  revered  but  carefully 
watched.  They  would  get  out  of  scrubbing  their 
hands  whenever  they  could,  and  they  hated  their 
beards  tied  up  with  gauze.  The  nurses,  keen,  com- 
petent and  kindly,  but  shrewd,  too,  looked  after 
these  elderly  recalcitrants;  loved  a  few,  hated  some, 
and  presented  to  the  world  unbroken  ranks  for  their 
defence. 

Twenty-two  learned  also  the  story  of  the  First 
Assistant,  who  was  in  love  with  one  of  the  Staff, 
who  was  married,  and  did  not  care  for  her  anyhow. 
So  she  wore  tight  shoes,  and  was  always  beautifully 
waved,  and  read  Browning. 

She  had  a  way  of  coming  in  and  saying  brightly, 
as  if  to  reassure  herself : 

"Good  morning,  Twenty-two.  Well,  God  is  still 
in  His  heaven,  and  all's  well  with  the  world." 


20 LOVE  STORIES 

Twenty-two  got  to  feeling  awfully  uncomfortable 
about  her.  She  used  to  bring  him  flowers  and  sit 
down  a  moment  to  rest  her  feet,  which  generally 
stung.  And  she  would  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  sen- 
tence and  look  into  space,  but  always  with  a  deter- 
mined smile. 

He  felt  awfully  uncomfortable.  She  was  so  neat 
and  so  efficient — and  so  tragic.  He  tried  to  imagine 
being  hopelessly  in  love,  and  trying  to  live  on  husks 
of  Browning.    Not  even  Mrs.  Browning. 

The  mind  is  a  curious  thing.  Suddenly,  from 
thinking  of  Mrs.  Browning,  he  thought  of  N.  Jane 
Brown.  Of  course  not  by  that  ridiculous  name.  He 
had  learned  that  she  was  stationed  on  that  floor. 
And  in  the  same  flash  he  saw  the  Senior  Surgical 
Interne  swanking  about  in  white  ducks  and  just  the 
object  for  a  probationer  to  fall  in  love  with.  He 
lay  there,  and  pulled  the  beginning  of  the  new  mous- 
tache, and  reflected.  The  First  Assistant  was  pin- 
ning a  spray  of  hyacinth  in  her  cap. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "Why  can't  I  be  put  in  a 
wheeled  chair  and  get  about  ?  One  that  I  can  ma- 
nipulate myself,"  he  added  craftily. 

She  demurred.  Indeed,  everybody  demurred  when 
he  put  it  up  to  them.  But  he  had  gone  through  the 
world  to  the  age  of  twenty-four,  getting  his  own 
way  about  ninety-seven  per  cent,  of  the  time.  He 
got  it  this  time,  consisting  of  a  new  cast,  which  he 


TWENTY-TWO 21 

named  Elizabeth,  and  a  roller-chair,  and  he  spent  a 
full  day  learning  how  to  steer  himself  around. 

Then,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  rolling 
back  toward  the  elevator  and  the  terra  incognita 
which  lay  beyond,  he  saw  a  sign.  He  stared  at  it 
blankly,  because  it  interfered  considerably  with  a 
plan  he  had  in  mind.  The  sign  was  of  tin,  and  it 
said: 

"No  private  patients  allowed  beyond  here." 

Twenty-two  sat  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  it.  The 
plaster  cast  stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  and  was 
covered  by  a  grey  blanket.  With  the  exception  of 
the  trifling  formality  of  trousers,  he  was  well  dressed 
in  a  sack  coat,  a  shirt,  waistcoat,  and  a  sort  of  col- 
lege-boy collar  and  tie,  which  one  of  the  orderlies 
had  purchased  for  him.  His  other  things  were  in 
that  extremely  expensive  English  car  which  the  city 
was  storing. 

The  plain  truth  is  that  Twenty-two  was  looking 
for  Jane  Brown.  Since  she  had  not  come  to  him, 
he  must  go  to  her.  He  particularly  wanted  to  set 
her  right  as  to  Mabel.  And  he  felt,  too,  that  that 
trick  about  respirations  had  not  been  entirely  fair. 

He  was,  of  course,  not  in  the  slightest  degree  in 
love  with  her.  He  had  only  seen  her  once,  and  then 
he  had  had  a  broken  leg  and  a  quarter  grain  of  mor- 
phia and  a  burned  moustache  and  no  eyebrows  left 
to  speak  of. 


22 LOVE  STORIES 

But  there  was  the  sign.  It  was  hung  to  a  nail 
beside  the  elevator  shaft.  And  far  beyond,  •  down 
the  corridor,  was  somebody  in  a  blue  dress  and  no 
cap.    It  might  be  anybody,  but  again 

Twenty-two  looked  around.  The  elevator  had 
just  gone  down  at  its  usual  rate  of  a  mile  every  two 
hours.  In  the  convalescent  parlour,  where  private 
patients  en  negligee  complained  about  the  hospital 
food,  the  nurse  in  charge  was  making  a  new  cap. 
Over  all  the  hospital  brooded  an  after-luncheon 
peace. 

Twenty-two  wheeled  up  under  the  sign  and  con- 
sidered his  average  of  ninety-seven  per  cent.  Fol- 
lowed in  sequence  these  events:  (a)  Twenty-two 
wheeled  back  to  the  parlour,  where  old  Mr.  Simond's 
cane  leaned  against  a  table,  and,  while  engaging 
that  gentleman  in  conversation,  possessed  himself 
of  the  cane,  (b)  Wheeled  back  to  the  elevator,  (c) 
Drew  cane  from  beneath  blanket,  (d)  Unhooked 
sign  with  cane  and  concealed  both  under  blanket, 
(e)  Worked  his  way  back  along  the  forbidden  ter- 
ritory, past  I  and  J  until  he  came  to  H  ward. 

Jane  Brown  was  in  H  ward. 

She  was  alone,  and  looking  very  professional. 
There  is  nothing  quite  so  professional  as  a  new  nurse. 
She  had,  indeed,  reached  a  point  where,  if  she  took 
a  pulse  three  times,  she  got  somewhat  similar  results. 


TWENTY-TWO         23 

There  had  been  a  time  when  they  had  run  some- 
thing like  this:  56 — 80 — 120 

Jane  Brown  was  taking  pulses.  It  was  a  visiting 
day,  and  all  the  beds  had  fresh  white  spreads, 
tucked  in  neatly  at  the  foot.  In  the  exact  middle  of 
the  centre  table  with  its  red  cloth,  was  a  vase  of 
yellow  tulips.  The  sun  came  in  and  turned  them 
to  golden  flame. 

Jane  Brown  was  on  duty  alone  and  taking  pulses 
with  one  eye  while  she  watched  the  visitors  with  the 
oth.  r.  She  did  the  watching  better  than  she  did  the 
pulses.  For  instance,  she  was  distinctly  aware  that 
Stanislas  Krzykolski's  wife,  in  the  bed  next  the  end, 
had  just  slid  a  half-dozen  greasy  cakes,  sprinkled 
with  sugar,  under  his  pillow.  She  knew,  however, 
that  not  only  grease  but  love  was  in  those  cakes,  and 
she  did  not  intend  to  confiscate  them  until  after  Mrs. 
Krzykolski  had  gone. 

More  visitors  came.  Shuffling  and  self-conscious 
mill-workers,  walking  on  their  toes;  draggled 
women;  a  Chinese  boy;  a  girl  with  a  rouged  face  and 
a  too  confident  manner.  A  hum  of  conversation 
hung  over  the  long  room.  The  sunlight  came  in 
and  turned  to  glory,  not  only  the  tulips  and  the  red 
tablecloth,  but  also  the  brass  basins,  the  fireplace 
fender,  and  the  Probationer's  hair. 

Twenty-two  sat  unnoticed  in  the  doorway.  A 
young  girl,  very  lame,  with  a  mandolin,  had  just  en- 


24  LOVE  STORIES 

tered  the  ward.  In  the  little  stir  of  her  arrival, 
Twenty-two  had  time  to  see  that  Jane  Brown  was 
worth  even  all  the  trouble  he  had  taken,  and  more. 
Really,  to  see  Jane  Brown  properly,  she  should  have 
always  been  seen  in  the  sun.    She  was  that  sort. 

The  lame  girl  sat  down  in  the  centre  of  the  ward, 
and  the  buzz  died  away.  She  was  not  pretty,  and 
she  was  very  nervous.  Twenty-two  frowned  a 
trifle. 

"Poor  devils,"  he  said  to  himself.  But  Jane 
Brown  put  away  her  hunting-case  watch,  and  the 
lame  girl  swept  the  ward  with  soft  eyes  that  had  in 
them  a  pity  that  was  almost  a  benediction. 

Then  she  sang.  Her  voice  was  like  her  eyes,  very 
sweet  and  rather  frightened,  but  tender.  And  sud- 
denly something  a  little  hard  and  selfish  in  Twenty- 
two  began  to  be  horribly  ashamed  of  itself.  And, 
for  no  earthly  reason  in  the  world,  he  began  to  feel 
like  a  cumberer  of  the  earth.  Before  she  had  finished 
the  first  song,  he  was  thinking  that  perhaps  when  he 
was  getting  about  again,  he  might  run  over  to  France 
for  a  few  months  in  the  ambulance  service.  A  fel- 
low really  ought  to  do  his  bit. 

At  just  about  that  point  Jane  Brown  turned  and 
saw  him.  And  although  he  had  run  all  these  risks 
to  get  to  her,  and  even  then  had  an  extremely  cold 
tin  sign  lying  on  his  knee  under  the  blanket,  at  first 
she  did  not  know  him.     The  shock  of  this  was  al- 


TWENTY-TWO  25 

most  too  much  for  him.  In  all  sorts  of  places  peo- 
ple were  glad  to  see  him,  especially  women.  He 
was  astonished,  but  it  was  good  for  him. 

She  recognised  him  almost  immediately,  however, 
and  flushed  a  little,  because  she  knew  he  had  no  busi- 
ness there.    She  was  awfully  bound  up  with  rules. 

"I  came  back  on  purpose  to  see  you,"  said 
Twenty-two,  when  at  last  the  lame  girl  had  limped 
away.  "Because,  that  day  I  came  in  and  you  looked 
after  me,  you  know,  I — must  have  talked  a  lot  of 
nonsense." 

"Morphia  makes  some  people  talk,"  she  said.  It 
was  said  in  an  exact  copy  of  the  ward  nurse's  voice, 
a  frightfully  professional  and  impersonal  tone. 

"But,"  said  Twenty-two,  stirring  uneasily,  "I  said 
a  lot  that  wasn't  true.  You  may  have  forgotten, 
but  I  haven't.  Now  that  about  a  girl  named  Mabel, 
for  instance " 

He  stirred  again,  because,  after  all,  what  did  it 
matter  what  he  had  said*?  She  was  gazing  over  the 
ward.  She  was  not  interested  in  him.  She  had  al- 
most forgotten  him.  And  as  he  stirred  Mr.  Simond's 
cane  fell  out.  It  was  immediately  followed  by  the 
tin  sign,  which  only  gradually  subsided,  face  up,  on 
the  bare  floor,  in  a  slowly  diminishing  series  of 
crashes. 

Jane  Brown  stooped  and  picked  them  both  up 
and  placed  them  on  his  lap.    Then,  very  stern,  she 


26 LOVE  STORIES 

marched  out  of  the  ward  into  the  corridor,  and  there 
subsided  into  quiet  hysterics  of  mirth.  Twenty-two, 
who  hated  to  be  laughed  at,  followed  her  in  the 
chair,  looking  extremely  annoyed. 

"What  else  was  I  to  do?"  he  demanded,  after  a 
time.    "Of  course,  if  you  report  it,  I'm  gone." 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  with  it  now*?"  she 
asked.  All  her  professional  manner  had  gone,  and 
she  looked  alarmingly  young. 

"If  I  put  it  back,  I'll  only  have  to  steal  it  again. 
Because  I  am  absolutely  bored  to  death  in  that  room 
of  mine.  I  have  played  a  thousand  games  of  soli- 
taire." 

The  Probationer  looked  around.  There  was  no 
one  in  sight. 

"I  should  think,"  she  suggested,  "that  if  you 
slipped  it  behind  that  radiator,  no  one  would  ever 
know  about  it." 

Fortunately,  the  ambulance  gong  set  up  a  clamour 
below  the  window  just  then,  and  no  one  heard  one 
of  the  hospital's  most  cherished  rules  going,  as  one 
may  say,  into  the  discard. 

The  Probationer  leaned  her  nose  against  the  win- 
dow and  looked  down.  A  coloured  man  was  being 
carried  in  on  a  stretcher.  Although  she  did  not 
know  it — indeed,  never  did  know  it — the  coloured 
gentleman  in  question  was  one  Augustus  Baird. 

Soon  afterward  Twenty-two  squeaked — his  chair 


TWENTY-TWO  27 

needed  oiling — squeaked  back  to  his  lonely  room  and 
took  stock.  He  found  that  he  was  rid  of  Mabel, 
but  was  still  a  reporter,  hurt  in  doing  his  duty.  He 
had  let  this  go  because  he  saw  that  duty  was  a  sort 
of  fetish  with  the  Probationer.  And  since  just  now 
she  liked  him  foi  what  she  thought  he  was,  why  not 
wait  to  tell  her  until  she  liked  him  for  himself? 

He  hoped  she  was  going  to  like  him,  because  she 
was  going  to  see  him  a  lot.  Also,  he  liked  her  even 
better  than  he  had  remembered  that  he  did.  She 
had  a  sort  of  thoroughbred  look  that  he  liked.  And 
he  liked  the  way  her  hair  was  soft  and  straight  and 
shiny.  And  he  liked  the  way  she  was  all  business 
and  no  nonsense.  And  the  way  she  counted  pulses, 
with  her  lips  moving  and  a  little  frown  between  her 
eyebrows.  And  he  liked  her  for  being  herself — 
which  is,  after  all,  the  reason  why  most  men  like 
the  women  they  like,  and  extremely  reasonable. 

The  First  Assistant  loaned  him  Browning  that 
afternoon,  and  he  read  "Pippa  Passes."  He  thought 
Pippa  must  have  looked  like  the  Probationer. 

The  Head  was  a  bit  querulous  that  evening.  The 
Heads  of  Training  Schools  get  that  way  now  and 
then,  although  they  generally  reveal  it  only  to  the 
First  Assistant.  They  have  to  do  so  many  irrecon- 
cilable things,  such  as  keeping  down  expenses  while 
keeping  up  requisitions,  and  remembering  the  dif- 
ferent sorts  of  sutures  the  Staff  likes,  and  receiving 


28  LOVE  STORIES 

the  Ladies'  Committee,  and  conducting  prayers  and 
lectures,  and  knowing  by  a  swift  survey  of  a  ward 
that  the  stands  have  been  carbolised  and  all  the  toe- 
nails cut.  Because  it  is  amazing  the  way  toe-nails 
grow  in  bed. 

The  Head  would  probably  never  have  come  out 
flatly,  but  she  had  a  wretched  cold,  and  the  First 
Assistant  was  giving  her  a  mustard  footbath,  which 
was  very  hot.  The  Head  sat  up  with  a  blanket  over 
her  shoulders,  and  read  lists  while  her  feet  took  on 
the  blush  of  ripe  apples.    And  at  last  she  said : 

"How  is  that  Probationer  with  the  ridiculous 
name  getting  along ?" 

The  First  Assistant  poured  in  more  hot  water. 

"N.  Jane*?"  she  asked.  "Well,  she's  a  nice  little 
thing,  and  she  seems  willing.    But,  of  course " 

The  Head  groaned. 

"Nineteen!"  she  said.  "And  no  character  at  all. 
I  detest  fluttery  people.  She  flutters  the  moment  I 
go  into  the  ward." 

The  First  Assistant  sat  back  and  felt  of  her  cap, 
which  was  of  starched  tulle  and  was  softening  a  bit 
from  the  steam.  She  felt  a  thrill  of  pity  for  the 
Probationer.  She,  too,  had  once  felt  fluttery  when 
the  Head  came  in. 

"She  is  very  anxious  to  stay,"  she  observed.  "She 
works  hard,  too.     I " 

"She  has  no  personality,  no  decision,"  said  the 


TWENTY-TWO 29 

Head,  and  sneezed  twice.  She  was  really  very 
wretched,  and  so  she  was  unfair.  "She  is  pretty  and 
sweet.  But  I  cannot  run  my  training  school  on 
prettiness  and  sweetness.  Has  Doctor  Harvard 
come  in  yet*?" 

"I — I  think  not,"  said  the  First  Assistant.  She 
looked  up  quickly,  but  the  Head  was  squeezing  a 
lemon  in  a  cup  of  hot  water  beside  her. 

Now,  while  the  Head  was  having  a  footbath,  and 
Twenty-two  was  having  a  stock-taking,  and  Augus- 
tus Baird  was  having  his  symptoms  recorded,  Jane 
Brown  was  having  a  shock. 

She  heard  an  unmistakable  shuffling  of  feet  in  the 
corridor. 

Sounds  take  on  much  significance  in  a  hospital, 
and  probationers  study  them,  especially  footsteps. 
It  gives  them  a  moment  sometimes  to  think  what  to 
do  next. 

Internes,  for  instance,  frequently  wear  rubber  soles 
on  their  white  shoes  and  have  a  way  of  slipping  up 
on  one.  And  the  engineer  goes  on  a  half  run,  gen- 
erally accompanied  by  the  clanking  of  a  tool  or  two. 
And  the  elevator  man  runs,  too,  because  generally 
the  bell  is  ringing.  And  ward  patients  shuffle  about 
in  carpet  slippers,  and  the  pharmacy  clerk  has  a  brisk 
young  step,  inclined  to  be  jaunty. 

But  it  is  the  Staff  which  is  always  unmistakable. 
It  comes  along  the  corridor  deliberately,  inexorably. 


30 LOVE  STORIES 

It  plants  its  feet  firmly  and  with  authority.  It 
moves  with  the  inevitability  of  fate,  with  the  pride 
of  royalty,  with  the  ease  of  the  best  made-to-order 
boots.  The  ring  of  a  Staff  member's  heel  on  a  hos- 
pital corridor  is  the  most  authoritative  sound  on 
earth.  He  may  be  the  gentlest  soul  in  the  world, 
but  he  will  tread  like  royalty. 

But  this  was  not  Staff.  Jane  Brown  knew  this 
sound,  and  it  filled  her  with  terror.  It  was  the  scuf- 
fling of  four  pairs  of  feet,  carefully  instructed  not 
to  keep  step.  It  meant,  in  other  words,  a  stretcher. 
But  perhaps  it  was  not  coming  to  her.  Ah,  but  it 
was! 

Panic  seized  Jane  Brown.  She  knew  there  were 
certain  things  to  do,  but  they  went  out  of  her  mind 
like  a  cat  out  of  a  cellar  window.  However,  the 
ward  was  watching.  It  had  itself,  generally  speak- 
ing, come  in  feet  first.  It  knew  the  procedure.  So, 
instructed  by  low  voices  from  the  beds  around,  Jane 
Brown  feverishly  tore  the  spread  off  the  emergency 
bed  and  drew  it  somewhat  apart  from  its  fellows. 
Then  she  stood  back  and  waited. 

Came  in  four  officers  from  the  police  patrol. 
Came  in  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne.  Came  two  con- 
valescents from  the  next  ward  to  stare  in  at  the  door. 
Came  the  stretcher,  containing  a  quiet  figure  under 
a  grey  blanket. 

Twenty-two,  at  that  exact  moment,  was  putting 


TWENTY-TWO 31 

a  queen  on  a  ten  spot  and  pretending  there  is  noth- 
ing wrong  about  cheating  oneself. 

In  a  very  short  time  the  quiet  figure  was  on  the 
bed,  and  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne  was  writing  in 
the  order  book:    "Prepare  for  operation." 

Jane  Brown  read  it  over  his  shoulder,  which  is  not 
etiquette. 

"But — I  can't,"  she  quavered.  "I  don't  know 
how.     I  won't  touch  him.     He's — he's  bloody!" 

Then  she  took  another  look  at  the  bed  and  she 
saw — Johnny  Fraser. 

Now  Johnny  had,  in  his  small  way,  played  a  part 
in  the  Probationer's  life,  such  as  occasionally  scrub- 
bing porches  or  borrowing  a  half  dollar  or  being  sus- 
pected of  stealing  the  eggs  from  the  henhouse.  But 
that  Johnny  Fraser  had  been  a  wicked,  smiling  imp, 
much  given  to  sitting  in  the  sun. 

Here  lay  another  Johnny  Fraser,  a  quiet  one,  who 
might  never  again  feel  the  warm  earth  through  his 
worthless  clothes  on  his  worthless  young  body.  A 
Johnny  of  closed  eyes  and  slow,  noisy  breathing. 

"Why,  Johnny!"  said  the  Probationer,  in  a 
strangled  voice. 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  was  interested. 

"Know  him'?"  he  said. 

"He  is  a  boy  from  home."  She  was  still  staring 
at  this  quiet,  un-impudent  figure. 


32  LOVE  STORIES 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  eyed  her  with  an  eye 
that  was  only  partially  professional.  Then  he  went 
to  the  medicine  closet  and  poured  a  bit  of  aromatic 
ammonia  into  a  glass. 

"Sit  down  and  drink  this,"  he  said,  in  a  very  mas- 
culine voice.  He  liked  to  feel  that  he  could  do 
something  for  her.  Indeed,  there  was  something  al- 
most proprietary  in  the  way  he  took  her  pulse. 

Some  time  after  the  early  hospital  supper  that  eve- 
ning Twenty-two,  having  oiled  his  chair  with  some 
olive  oil  from  his  tray,  made  a  clandestine  trip 
through  the  twilight  of  the  corridor  back  of  the  ele- 
vator shaft.  To  avoid  scandal  he  pretended  inter- 
est in  other  wards,  but  he  gravitated,  as  a  needle  to 
the  pole,  to  H.  And  there  he  found  the  Probationer, 
looking  rather  strained,  and  mothering  a  quiet  figure 
on  a  bed. 

He  was  a  trifle  puzzled  at  her  distress,  for  she 
made  no  secret  of  Johnny's  status  in  the  community. 
What  he  did  not  grasp  was  that  Johnny  Fraser  was 
a  link  between  this  new  and  rather  terrible  world  of 
the  hospital  and  home.  It  was  not  Johnny  alone,  it 
was  Johnny  scrubbing  a  home  porch  and  doing  it 
badly,  it  was  Johnny  in  her  father's  old  clothes,  it 
was  Johnny  fishing  for  catfish  in  the  creek,  or  lending 
his  pole  to  one  of  the  little  brothers  whose  pictures 
were  on  her  table  in  the  dormitory. 

Twenty-two  felt  a  certain  depression.     He  re- 


TWENTY-TWO 33 

fleeted  rather  grimly  that  he  had  been  ten  days  miss- 
ing and  that  no  one  had  apparently  given  a  hang 
whether  he  turned  up  or  not. 

"Is  he  going  to  live?"  he  inquired.  He  could  see 
that  the  ward  nurse  had  an  eye  on  him,  and  was  pre- 
paring for  retreat. 

"O  yes,"  said  Jane  Brown.  "I  think  so  now. 
The  interne  says  they  have  had  a  message  from  Doc- 
tor Willie.  He  is  coming."  There  was  a  beautiful 
confidence  in  her  tone. 

Things  moved  very  fast  with  the  Probationer  for 
the  next  twenty-four  hours.  Doctor  Willie  came, 
looking  weary  but  smiling  benevolently.  Jane 
Brown  met  him  in  a  corridor  and  kissed  him,  as,  in- 
deed, she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  since  her 
babyhood. 

"Where  is  the  young  rascal?"  said  Doctor  Willie. 
"Up  to  his  old  tricks,  Nellie,  and  struck  by  a  train." 
He  put  a  hand  under  her  chin,  which  is  never  done 
to  the  members  of  the  training  school  in  a  hospital, 
and  searched  her  face  with  his  kind  old  eyes.  "Well, 
how  does  it  go,  Nellie?" 

Jane  Brown  swallowed  hard. 

"All  right,"  she  managed.  "They  want  to  oper- 
ate, Doctor  Willie." 

"Tut!"  he  said.  "Always  in  a  hurry,  these  hos- 
pitals.   We'll  wait  a  while,  I  think." 

"Is  everybody  well  at  home?" 


34  LOVE  STORIES 

It  had  come  to  her,  you  see,  what  comes  to  every 
nurse  once  in  her  training — the  thinness  of  the  veil, 
the  terror  of  calamity,  the  fear  of  death. 

"All  well.    And "  he  glanced  around.    Only 

the  Senior  Surgical  Interne  was  in  sight,  and  he  was 
out  of  hearing.  "Look  here,  Nellie,,,  he  said,  "I've 
got  a  dozen  fresh  eggs  for  you  in  my  satchel.  Your 
mother  sent  them." 

She  nearly  lost  her  professional  manner  again 
then.  But  she  only  asked  him  to  warn  the  boys 
about  automobiles  and  riding  on  the  backs  of 
wagons. 

Had  any  one  said  Twenty-two  to  her,  she  would 
not  have  known  what  was  meant.  Not  just  then, 
anyhow. 

In  the  doctors'  room  that  night  the  Senior  Surgi- 
cal Interne  lighted  a  cigarette  and  telephoned  to  the 
operating  room. 

"That  trephining's  off,"  he  said,  briefly. 

Then  he  fell  to  conversation  with  the  Senior  Medi- 
cal, who  was  rather  worried  about  a  case  listed  on 
the  books  as  Augustus  Baird,  coloured. 

Twenty-two  did  not  sleep  very  well  that  night. 
He  needed  exercise,  he  felt.  But  there  was  some- 
thing else.  Miss  Brown  had  been  just  a  shade  too 
ready  to  accept  his  explanation  about  Mabel,  he  felt, 
so  ready  that  he  feared  she  had  been  more  polite 
than  sincere.    Probably  she  still  believed  there  was 


TWENTY-TWO  35 

a  Mabel.  Not  that  it  mattered,  except  that  he  hated 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself.  He  roused  once  in  the 
night  and  was  quite  sure  he  heard  her  voice  down 
the  corridor.  He  knew  this  must  be  wrong,  because 
they  would  not  make  her  work  all  day  and  all  night, 
too. 

But,  as  it  happened,  it  was  Jane  Brown.  The 
hospital  provided  plenty  of  sleeping  time,  but  now 
and  then  there  was  a  slip-up  and  somebody  paid. 
There  had  been  a  night  operation,  following  on  a 
busy  day,  and  the  operating-room  nurses  needed 
help.  Out  of  a  sound  sleep  the  night  Assistant  had 
summoned  Jane  Brown  to  clean  instruments. 

At  five  o'clock  that  morning  she  was  still  sitting 
on  a  stool  beside  a  glass  table,  polishing  instruments 
which  made  her  shiver.  All  around  were  things  that 
were  spattered  with  blood.  But  she  looked  anything 
but  fluttery.  She  was  a  very  grim  and  determined 
young  person  just  then,  and  professional  beyond  be- 
lief. The  other  things,  like  washing  window-sills 
and  cutting  toe-nails,  had  had  no  significance.  But 
here  she  was  at  last  on  the  edge  of  mercy.  Some 
one  who  might  have  died  had  lived  that  night  be- 
cause of  this  room,  and  these  instruments,  and  will- 
ing hands. 

She  hoped  she  would  always  have  willing  hands. 

She  looked  very  pale  at  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  rather  older.    Also  she  had  a  new  note  of 


36 LOVE  STORIES 

authority  in  her  voice  when  she  telephoned  the 
kitchen  and*  demanded  H  ward's  soft-boiled  eggs. 
She  washed  window-sills  that  morning  again,  but  no 
longer  was  there  rebellion  in  her  soul.  She  was  see- 
ing suddenly  how  the  hospital  required  all  these 
menial  services,  which  were  not  menial  at  all  but 
only  preparation;  that  there  were  little  tasks  and 
big  ones,  and  one  graduated  from  the  one  to  the 
other. 

She  took  some  flowers  from  the  ward  bouquet  and 
put  them  beside  Johnny's  bed — Johnny,  who  was 
still  lying  quiet,  with  closed  eyes. 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  did  a  dressing  in  the 
ward  that  morning.  He  had  been  in  to  see  Augustus 
Baird,  and  he  felt  uneasy.  He  vented  it  on  Tony,  the 
Italian,  with  a  stiletto  thrust  in  his  neck,  by  jerking 
at  the  adhesive.  Tony  wailed,  and  Jane  Brown,  who 
was  the  "dirty"  nurse — which  does  not  mean  what 
it  appears  to  mean,  but  is  the  person  who  receives  the 
soiled  dressings — Jane  Brown  gritted  her  teeth. 

"Keep  quiet,"  said  the  S.  S.  I.,  who  was  a  good 
fellow,  but  had  never  been  stabbed  in  the  neck  for 
running  away  with  somebody  else's  wife. 

"Eet  hurt,"  said  Tony.     "Ow." 

Jane  Brown  turned  very  pink. 

"Why  don't  you  let  me  cut  it  off  properly?"  she 
said,  in  a  strangled  tone. 

The  total  result  of  this  was  that  Jane  Brown  was 


TWENTY-TWO 37 

reprimanded  by  the  First  Assistant,  and  learned  some 
things  about  ethics. 

"But,"  she  protested,  "it  was  both  stupid  and 
cruel.    And  if  I  know  I  am  right " 

"How  are  you  to  know  you  are  right?"  demanded 
the  First  Assistant,  crossly.  Her  feet  were  stinging. 
"  CA  little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing.'  "  This 
was  a  favorite  quotation  of  hers,  although  not 
Browning.  "Nurses  in  hospitals  are  there  to  carry 
out  the  doctor's  orders.  Not  to  think  or  to  say  what 
they  think  unless  they  are  asked.  To  be  intelligent, 
but " 

"But  not  too  intelligent!"  said  the  Probationer. 
"I  see." 

This  was  duly  reported  to  the  Head,  who  ob- 
served that  it  was  merely  what  she  had  expected  and 
extremely  pert.     Her  cold  was  hardly  any  better. 

It  was  taking  the  Probationer  quite  a  time  to  real- 
ise her  own  total  lack  of  significance  in  all  this. 
She  had  been  accustomed  to  men  who  rose  when  a 
woman  entered  a  room  and  remained  standing  as 
long  as  she  stood.  And  now  she  was  in  a  new  world, 
where  she  had  to  rise  and  remain  standing  while  a 
cocky  youth  in  ducks,  just  out  of  medical  college, 
sauntered  in  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  took  a 
boutonniere  from  the  ward  bouquet. 

It  was  probably  extremely  good  for  her. 

She  was  frightfully  tired  that  day,  and  toward 


38  LOVE  STORIES 

evening  the  little  glow  of  service  began  to  fade. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  do  for  Johnny  but 
to  wait.  Doctor  Willie  had  seemed  to  think  that 
nature  would  clear  matters  up  there,  and  had  re- 
quested no  operation.  She  smoothed  beds  and  car- 
ried cups  of  water  and  broke  another  thermometer. 
And  she  put  the  eggs  from  home  in  the  ward  pantry 
and  made  egg-nogs  of  them  for  Stanislas  Krzykol- 
ski,  who  was  unaccountably  upset  as  to  stomach. 

She  had  entirely  forgotten  Twenty-two.  He  had 
stayed  away  all  that  day,  in  a  sort  of  faint  hope 
that  she  would  miss  him.  But  she  had  not.  She 
was  feeling  rather  worried,  to  tell  the  truth.  For 
a  Staff  surgeon  going  through  the  ward,  had  stopped 
by  Johnny's  bed  and  examined  the  pupils  of  his  eyes, 
and  had  then  exchanged  a  glance  with  the  Senior 
Surgical  Interne  that  had  perplexed  her. 

In  the  chapel  at  prayers  that  evening  all  around 
her  the  nurses  sat  and  rested,  their  tired  hands  folded 
in  their  laps.  They  talked  a  little  among  them- 
selves, but  it  was  only  a  buzzing  that  reached  the 
Probationer  faintly.  Some  one  near  was  talking 
about  something  that  was  missing. 

"Gone?"  she  said.  "Of  course  it  is  gone.  The 
bath-room  man  reported  it  to  me  and  I  went  and 
looked." 

"But  who  in  the  world  would  take  it?" 


TWENTY-TWO 39 

"My  dear,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "who  does  take 
things  in  a  hospital,  anyhow?    Only — a  tin  sign!" 

It  was  then  that  the  Head  came  in.  She  swept 
in;  her  grey  gown,  her  grey  hair  gave  her  a  majesty 
that  filled  the  Probationer  with  awe.  Behind  her 
came  the  First  Assistant  with  the  prayer-book  and 
hymnal.     The  Head  believed  in  form. 

Jane  Brown  offered  up  a  little  prayer  that  night 
for  Johnny  Fraser,  and  another  little  one  without 
words,  that  Doctor  Willie  was  right.  She  sat  and 
rested  her  weary  young  body,  and  remembered  how 
Doctor  Willie  was  loved  and  respected,  and  the 
years  he  had  cared  for  the  whole  countryside.  And 
the  peace  of  the  quiet  room,  with  the  Easter  lilies  on 
the  tiny  altar,  brought  rest  to  her. 

It  was  when  prayers  were  over  that  the  Head 
made  her  announcement.  She  rose  and  looked  over 
the  shadowy  room,  where  among  the  rows  of  white 
caps  only  the  Probationer's  head  was  uncovered,  and 
she  said: 

"I  have  an  announcement  to  make  to  the  train- 
ing school.  One  which  I  regret,  and  which  will 
mean  a  certain  amount  of  hardship  and  deprivation. 

"A  case  of  contagion  has  been  discovered  in  one 
of  the  wards,  and  it  has  been  considered  necessary 
to  quarantine  the  hospital.  The  doors  were  closed 
at  seven-thirty  this  evening." 


40  LOVE  STORIES 

ii 

Considering  that  he  could  not  get  out  anyhow, 
Twenty-two  took  the  news  of  the  quarantine  calmly. 
He  reflected  that,  if  he  was  shut  in,  Jane  Brown 
was  shut  in  also.  He  had  a  wicked  hope,  at  the  be- 
ginning, that  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne  had  been 
shut  out,  but  at  nine  o'clock  that  evening  that  young 
gentleman  showed  up  at  the  door  of  his  room,  said 
"Cheer-o,"  came  in,  helped  himself  to  a  cigarette, 
gave  a  professional  glance  at  Twenty-two's  toes, 
which  were  all  that  was  un-plastered  of  the  leg,  and 
departing  threw  back  over  his  shoulder  his  sole  con- 
versational effort: 

"Hell  of  a  mess,  isn't  it?' 

Twenty-two  took  up  again  gloomily  the  book  he 
was  reading,  which  was  on  Diseases  of  the  Horse, 
from  the  hospital  library.  He  was  in  the  midst  of 
Glanders. 

He  had,  during  most  of  that  day,  been  making 
up  his  mind  to  let  his  family  know  where  he  was. 
He  did  not  think  they  cared,  particularly.  He  had 
no  illusions  about  that.  But  there  was  something 
about  Jane  Brown  which  made  him  feel  like  doing 
the  decent  thing.  It  annoyed  him  frightfully,  but 
there  it  was.  She  was  so  eminently  the  sort  of  per- 
son who  believed  in  doing  the  decent  thing. 

So,  about  seven  o'clock,  he  had  sent  the  orderly 


TWENTY-TWO 41 

out  for  stamps  and  paper.  He  imagined  that  Jane 
Brown  would  not  think  writing  home  on  hospital 
stationery  a  good  way  to  break  bad  news.  But  the 
orderly  had  stopped  for  a  chat  at  the  engine  house, 
and  had  ended  by  playing  a  game  of  dominoes. 
When,  at  ten  o'clock,  he  had  returned  to  the  hospital 
entrance,  the  richer  by  a  quarter  and  a  glass  of  beer, 
he  had  found  a  strange  policeman  on  the  hospital 
steps,  and  the  doors  locked. 

The  quarantine  was  on. 

Now  there  are  different  sorts  of  quarantines. 
There  is  the  sort  where  a  trained  nurse  and  the  pa- 
tient are  shut  up  in  a  room  and  bath,  and  the  family 
only  opens  the  door  and  peers  in.  And  there  is  the 
sort  where  the  front  door  has  a  placard  on  it,  and  the 
family  goes  in  and  out  the  back  way,  and  takes  a 
street-car  to  the  office  the  same  as  usual.  And  there 
is  the  hospital  quarantine,  which  is  the  real  thing, 
because  hospitals  are  expected  to  do  things  thor- 
oughly. 

So  our  hospital  was  closed  up  as  tight  as  a  jar 
of  preserves.  There  were  policemen  at  all  the  doors, 
quite  suddenly.  They  locked  the  doors  and  put  the 
keys  in  their  pockets,  and  from  that  time  on  they 
opened  them  only  to  pass  things  in,  such  as  news- 
papers or  milk  or  groceries  or  the  braver  members 
of  the  Staff.  But  not  to  let  anything  out — except 
the  Staff.    Supposedly  Staffs  do  not  carry  germs. 


42  LOVE  STORIES 

And,  indeed,  even  the  Staff  was  not  keen  about 
entering.  It  thought  of  a  lot  of  things  it  ought  to  do 
about  visiting  time,  and  prescribed  considerably  over 
the  telephone. 

At  first  there  was  a  great  deal  of  confusion,  be- 
cause quite  a  number  of  people  had  been  out  on  va- 
rious errands  when  it  happened.  And  they  came 
back,  and  protested  to  the  office  that  they  had  only 
their  uniforms  on  under  their  coats,  and  three  dol- 
lars; or  their  slippers  and  no  hats.  Or  that  they 
would  sue  the  city.  One  or  two  of  them  got  quite 
desperate  and  tried  to  crawl  up  the  fire-escape,  but 
failed. 

This  is  of  interest  chiefly  because  it  profoundly 
affected  Jane  Brown.  Miss  McAdoo,  her  ward 
nurse,  had  debated  whether  to  wash  her  hair  that 
evening,  or  to  take  a  walk.  She  had  decided  on  the 
walk,  and  was  therefore  shut  out,  along  with  the 
Junior  Medical,  the  kitchen  cat,  the  Superintendent's 
mother-in-law  and  six  other  nurses. 

The  next  morning  the  First  Assistant  gave  Jane 
Brown  charge  of  H  ward. 

"It's  very  irregular,"  she  said.  "I  don't  exactly 
know — you  have  only  one  bad  case,  haven't  you?" 

"Only  Johnny." 

The  First  Assistant  absent-mindedly  ran  a  finger 
over  the  top  of  a  table,  and  examined  it  for  dust. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,   "it's  a  great  chance  for 


TWENTY-TWO  43 

you.  Show  that  you  can  handle  this  ward,  and  you 
are  practically  safe." 

Jane  Brown  drew  a  long  breath  and  stood  up 
very  straight.  Then  she  ran  her  eye  over  the  ward. 
There  was  something  vaguely  reminiscent  of  Miss 
McAdoo  in  her  glance. 

Twenty-two  made  three  brief  excursions  back 
along  the  corridor  that  first  day  of  the  quarantine. 
But  Jane  Brown  was  extremely  professional  and 
very  busy.  There  was  an  air  of  discipline  over  the 
ward.  Let  a  man  but  so  much  as  turn  over  in  bed 
and  show  an  inch  of  blanket,  and  she  pounced  on 
the  bed  and  reduced  it  to  the  most  horrible  neatness. 
All  the  beds  looked  as  if  they  had  been  made  up  with 
a  carpenter's  square. 

On  the  third  trip,  however,  Jane  Brown  was  writ- 
ing at  the  table.  Twenty-two  wheeled  himself  into 
the  doorway  and  eyed  her  with  disapproval. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  sitting  down4?"  he  de- 
manded sarcastically.  "Don't  you  know  that  now 
you  are  in  charge  you  ought  to  keep  moving  ?" 

To  which  she  replied,  absently: 

"Three  buttered  toasts,  two  dry  toasts,  six  soft 
boiled  eggs,  and  twelve  soups."  She  was  working 
on  the  diet  slips. 

Then  she  smiled  at  him.  They  were  quite  old 
friends  already.  It  is  curious  about  love  and  friend- 
ship and  all  those  kindred  emotions.    They  do  not 


44  LOVE  STORIES 

grow  nearly  so  fast  when  people  are  together  as  when 
they  are  apart.  It  is  an  actual  fact  that  the  growth 
of  many  an  intimacy  is  checked  by  meetings.  Be- 
cause when  people  are  apart  it  is  what  they  are  that 
counts,  and  when  they  are  together  it  is  what  they 
do  and  say  and  look  like.  Many  a  beautiful  affair 
has  been  ruined  because,  just  as  it  was  going  along 
well,  the  principals  met  again. 

However,  all  this  merely  means  that  Twenty-two 
and  Jane  Brown  were  infinitely  closer  friends  than 
four  or  five  meetings  really  indicates. 

The  ward  was  very  quiet  on  this  late  afternoon 
call  of  his  save  for  Johnny's  heavy  breathing.  There 
is  a  quiet  hour  in  a  hospital,  between  afternoon  tem- 
peratures and  the  ringing  of  the  bell  which  means 
that  the  suppers  for  the  wards  are  on  their  way — a 
quiet  hour  when  over  the  long  rows  of  beds  broods 
the  peace  of  the  ending  day. 

It  is  a  melancholy  hour,  too,  because  from  the 
streets  comes  faintly  the  echo  of  feet  hurrying  home, 
the  eager  trot  of  a  horse  bound  stableward.  To  those 
in  the  eddy  that  is  the  ward  comes  at  this  time  a 
certain  heaviness  of  spirit.  Poor  thing  though  home 
may  have  been,  they  long  for  it. 

In  H  ward  that  late  afternoon  there  was  a  wave 
of  homesickness  in  the  air,  and  on  the  part  of  those 
men  who  were  up  and  about,  who  shuffled  up  and 


TWENTY-TWO  45 

down  the  ward  in  flapping  carpet  slippers,  an  incli- 
nation to  mutiny. 

"How  did  they  take  it*?"    Twenty-two  inquired. 

She  puckered  her  eyebrows. 

"They  don't  like  it,"  she  confessed.  "Some  of 
them  were  about  ready  to  go  home,  and  it — TonyT 
she  called  sharply. 

For  Tony,  who  had  been  cunningly  standing  by 
the  window  leading  to  a  fire-escape,  had  flung  the 
window  up  and  was  giving  unmistakable  signs  of 
climbing  out  and  returning  to  the  other  man's  wife. 

"Tony!"  she  called,  and  ran.  Tony  scrambled 
up  on  the  sill.  A  sort  of  titter  ran  over  the  ward 
and  Tony,  now  on  the  platform  outside,  waved  a 
derisive  hand  through  the  window. 

"Good-bye,  mees!"  he  said,  and — disappeared. 

It  was  not  a  very  dramatic  thing,  after  all.  It  is 
chiefly  significant  for  its  effect  on  Twenty-two,  who 
was  obliged  to  sit  frozen  with  horror  and  cursing  his 
broken  leg,  while  Jane  Brown  raced  a  brown  little 
Italian  down  the  fire-escape  and  caught  him  at  the 
foot  of  it.  Tony  took  a  look  around.  The  court- 
yard gates  were  closed  and  a  policeman  sat  outside 
on  a  camp-stool  reading  the  newspaper.  Tony 
smiled  sheepishly  and  surrendered. 

Some  seconds  later  Tony  and  Jane  Brown  ap- 
peared on  the  platform  outside.  Jane  Brown  had 
Tony  by  the  ear,  and  she  stopped  long  enough  out- 


46  LOVE  STORIES 

side  to  exchange  the  ear  for  his  shoulder,  by  which 
she  shook  him,  vigorously. 

Twenty-two  turned  his  chair  around  and  wheeled 
himself  back  to  his  room.  He  was  filled  with  a  cold 
rage — because  she  might  have  fallen  on  the  fire- 
escape  and  been  killed ;  because  he  had  not  been  able 
to  help  her;  because  she  was  there,  looking  after 
the  derelicts  of  life,  when  the  world  was  beautiful 
outside,  and  she  was  young;  because  to  her  he  was 
just  Twenty-two  and  nothing  more. 

He  had  seen  her  exactly  six  times. 

Jane  Brown  gave  the  ward  a  little  talk  that  night 
before  the  night  nurse  reported.  She  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  long  room,  beside  the  tulips,  and  said 
that  she  was  going  to  be  alone  there,  and  that  she 
would  have  to  put  the  situation  up  to  their  sense  of 
honour.  If  they  tried  to  escape,  they  would  hurt  her. 
Also  they  would  surely  be  caught  and  brought  back. 
And,  because  she  believed  in  a  combination  of  faith 
and  deeds,  she  took  three  nails  and  the  linen-room 
flatiron,  and  nailed  shut  the  window  onto  the  fire- 
escape. 

After  that,  she  brushed  crumbs  out  of  the  beds 
with  a  whiskbroom  and  rubbed  a  few  backs  with  al- 
cohol, and  smoothed  the  counterpanes,  and  hung 
over  Johnny's  unconscious  figure  for  a  little  while, 
giving  motherly  pats  to  his  flat  pillow  and  worry- 
ing considerably  because  there  was  so  little  about 


TWENTY-TWO 47 

him  to  remind  her  of  the  Johnny  she  knew  at  home. 

After  that  she  sat  down  and  made  up  her  records 
for  the  night  nurse.  The  ward  understood,  and  was 
perfectly  good,  trying  hard  not  to  muss  its  pillows 
or  wrinkle  the  covers.  And  struggling,  too,  with  a 
new  idea.  They  were  prisoners.  No  more  release 
cards  would  brighten  the  days.  For  an  indefinite 
period  the  old  Frenchman  would  moan  at  night,  and 
Bader  the  German  would  snore,  and  the  Chinaman 
would  cough.  Indefinitely  they  would  eat  soft- 
boiled  eggs  and  rice  and  beef-tea  and  cornstarch. 

The  ward  felt  extremely  low  in  its  mind. 

That  night  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne  went  in  to 
play  cribbage  with  Twenty-two,  and  received  a  lec- 
ture on  leaving  a  young  girl  alone  in  H  with  a  lot  of 
desperate  men.  They  both  grew  rather  heated  over 
the  discussion  and  forgot  to  play  cribbage  at  all. 
Twenty-two  lay  awake  half  the  night,  because  he 
had  seen  clearly  that  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne  was 
interested  in  Jane  Brown  also,  and  would  probably 
loaf  around  H  most  of  the  time  since  there  would 
be  no  new  cases  now.  It  was  a  crowning  humilia- 
tion to  have  the  night  nurse  apply  to  the  Senior  Sur- 
gical Interne  for  a  sleeping  powder  for  him! 

Toward  morning  he  remembered  that  he  had 
promised  to  write  out  from  memory  one  of  the  Son- 
nets from  the  Portuguese  for  the  First  Assistant,  and 


48  LOVE  STORIES 

he  turned  on  the  light  and  jotted  down  two  lines  of 
it.    He  wrote: 

"For  we  two  look  two  ways,  and  cannot  shine 
With  the  same  sunlight  on  our  brow  and  hair" — 

And  then  sat  up  in  bed  for  half  an  hour  looking 
at  it  because  he  was  so  awfully  afraid  it  was  true 
of  Jane  Brown  and  himself.  Not,  of  course,  that  he 
wanted  to  shine  at  all.  It  was  the  looking  two  ways 
that  hurt. 

The  next  evening  the  nurses  took  their  airing  on 
the  roof,  which  was  a  sooty  place  with  a  parapet,  and 
in  the  courtyard,  which  was  an  equally  sooty  place 
with  a  wispy  fountain.  And  because  the  whole 
situation  was  new,  they  formed  in  little  groups  on 
the  wooden  benches  and  sang,  hands  folded  on 
white  aprons,  heads  lifted,  eyes  upturned  to  where, 
above  the  dimly  lighted  windows,  the  stars  peered 
palely  through  the  smoke. 

The  S.  S.  I.  sauntered  out.  He  had  thought 
he  saw  the  Probationer  from  his  window,  and 
in  the  new  relaxation  of  discipline  he  saw  a  chance 
to  join  her.  But  the  figure  he  had  thought  he  rec- 
ognised proved  to  be  some  one  else,  and  he  fell  to 
wandering  alone  up  and  down  the  courtyard. 

He  was  trying  to  work  out  this  problem:  would 
the  advantage  of  marrying  early  and  thus  being  con- 


TWENTY-TWO 49 

sidered  eligible  for  certain  cases,  offset  trie  disad- 
vantage of  the  extra  expense*? 

He  decided  to  marry  early  and  hang  the  expense. 

The  days  went  by,  three,  then  four,  and  a  little 
line  of  tension  deepened  around  Jane  Brown's 
mouth.  Perhaps  it  has  not  been  mentioned  that  she 
had  a  fighting  nose,  short  and  straight,  and  a  wistful 
mouth.  For  Johnny  Fraser  was  still  lying  in  a 
stupor. 

Jane  Brown  felt  that  something  was  wrong. 
Doctor  Willie  came  in  once  or  twice,  making  the 
long  trip  without  complaint  and  without  hope  of 
payment.  All  his  busy  life  he  had  worked  for  the 
sake  of  work,  and  not  for  reward.  He  called  her 
"Nellie,"  to  the  delight  of  the  ward,  which  began 
to  love  him,  and  he  spent  a  long  hour  each  time  by 
Johnny's  bed.  But  the  Probationer  was  quick  to 
realise  that  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne  disapproved 
of  him. 

That  young  man  had  developed  a  tendency  to 
wander  into  H  at  odd  hours,  and  sit  on  the  edge  of 
a  table,  leaving  Jane  Brown  divided  between  proper 
respect  for  an  interne  and  fury  over  the  wrinkling  of 
her  table  covers.  It  was  during  one  of  these  visits 
that  she  spoke  of  Doctor  Willie. 

"Because  he  is  a  country  practitioner,"  she  said, 
"you — you  patronise  him." 


50 LOVE  STORIES 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne. 
"Personally  I  like  him  immensely." 

"Personally!" 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  waved  a  hand  toward 
Johnny's  bed. 

"Look  there,"  he  said.  "You  don't  think  that 
chap's  getting  any  better,  do  you?" 

"If,"  said  Jane  Brown,  with  suspicious  quiet,  "if 
you  think  you  know  more  than  a  man  who  has  prac- 
tised for  forty  years,  and  saved  more  people  than 
you  ever  saw,  why  don't  you  tell  him  so*?" 

There  is  really  no  defence  for  this  conversation. 
Discourse  between  a  probationer  and  an  interne  is 
supposed  to  be  limited  to  yea,  yea,  and  nay,  nay. 
But  the  circumstances  were  unusual. 

"Tell  him!"  exclaimed  the  Senior  Surgical  In- 
terne, "and  be  called  before  the  Executive  Commit- 
tee and  fired!  Dear  girl,  I  am  inexpressibly  flat- 
tered, but  the  voice  of  an  interne  in  a  hospital  is  the 
voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness." 

Twenty-two,  who  was  out  on  crutches  that  day 
for  the  first  time,  and  was  looking  very  big  and  ex- 
tremely awkward,  Twenty-two  looked  back  from  the 
elevator  shaft  and  scowled.  He  seemed  always  to 
see  a  flash  of  white  duck  near  the  door  of  H  ward. 

To  add  to  his  chagrin,  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne 
clapped  him  on  the  back  in  congratulation  a  mo- 
ment later,  and  nearly  upset  him.    He  had  intended 


TWENTY-TWO 51 

to  go  back  to  the  ward  and  discuss  a  plan  he  had,  but 
he  was  very  morose  those  days  and  really  not  a  com- 
panionable person.  He  stumped  back  to  his  room 
and  resolutely  went  to  bed. 

There  he  lay  for  a  long  time  looking  at  the  ceil- 
ing, and  saying,  out  of  his  misery,  things  not  neces- 
sary to  repeat. 

So  Twenty-two  went  to  bed  and  sulked,  refusing 
supper,  and  having  the  word  "Vicious"  marked  on 
his  record  by  the  nurse,  who  hoped  he  would  see  it 
some  time.  And  Jane  Brown  went  and  sat  beside 
a  strangely  silent  Johnny,  and  worried.  And  the 
Senior  Surgical  Interne  went  down  to  the  pharmacy 
and  thereby  altered  a  number~of  things. 

The  pharmacy  clerk  had  been  shaving — his  own 
bedroom  was  dark — and  he  saw  the  Senior  Surgical 
Interne  in  the  little  mirror  hung  on  the  window 
frame. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  over  the  soap.    "Shut  the  door." 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  shut  the  door,  and 
then  sniffed.  "Smells  like  a  bar-room,"  he  com- 
mented. 

The  pharmacy  clerk  shaved  the  left  angle  of  his 
jaw,  and  then  turned  around. 

"Little  experiment  of  mine,"  he  explained.  "Sim- 
ple syrup,  grain  alcohol,  a  dash  of  cochineal  for 
colouring,  and  some  flavouring  extract.  It's  an  imi- 
tation cordial.     Try  it." 


52  LOVE  STORIES 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  was  not  a  drinker, 
but  he  was  willing  to  try  anything  once.  So  he  se- 
cured a  two-ounce  medicine  glass,  and  filled  it. 

"Looks  nice,"  he  commented,  and  tasted  it.  "It's 
not  bad." 

"Not  bad !"  said  the  pharmacy  clerk.  "You'd  pay 
four  dollars  a  bottle  for  that  stuff  in  a  hotel.  Actual 
cost  here,  about  forty  cents." 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  sat  down  and 
stretched  out  his  legs.    He  had  the  glass  in  his  hand. 

"It's  rather  sweet,"  he  said.  "But  it  looks 
pretty."    He  took  another  sip. 

After  he  had  finished  it,  he  got  to  thinking  things 
over.  He  felt  about  seven  feet  tall  and  very  im- 
portant, and  not  at  all  like  a  voice  crying  in  the 
wilderness.  He  had  a  strong  inclination  to  go  into 
the  Superintendent's  office  and  tell  him  where  he 
went  wrong  in  running  the  institution — which  he 
restrained.  And  another  to  go  up  to  H  and  tell 
Jane  Brown  the  truth  about  Johnny  Fraser — which 
he  yielded  to. 

On  the  way  up  he  gave  the  elevator  man  a  cigar. 

He  was  very  explicit  with  Jane  Brown. 

"Your  man's  wrong,  that's  all  there  is  about  it," 
he  said.  "I  can't  say  anything  and  you  can't.  But 
he's  wrong.  That's  an  operative  case.  The  Staff 
knows  it." 

"Then,  why  doesn't  the  Staff  do  it4?" 


TWENTY-TWO  53 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  was  still  feeling  very 
tall.    He  looked  down  at  her  from  a  great  distance. 

"Because,  dear  child,"  he  said,  "it's  your  man's 
case.  You  ought  to  know  enough  about  profes- 
sional ethics  for  that." 

He  went  away,  then,  and  had  a  violent  headache, 
which  he  blamed  on  confinement  and  lack  of  ex- 
ercise. But  he  had  sowed  something  in  the  Proba- 
tioner's mind. 

For  she  knew,  suddenly,  that  he  had  been  right. 
The  Staff  had  meant  that,  then,  when  they  looked 
at  Johnny  and  shook  their  heads.  The  Staff  knew, 
the  hospital  knew.  Every  one  knew  but  Doctor 
Willie.  But  Doctor  Willie  had  the  case.  Back  in 
her  little  town  Johnny's  mother  was  looking  to  Doc- 
tor Willie,  believing  in  him,  hoping  through  him. 

That  night  Twenty-two  slept,  and  Jane  Brown 
lay  awake.  And  down  in  H  ward  Johnny  Fraser 
had  a  bad  spell  at  that  hour  toward  dawn  when 
the  vitality  is  low,  and  men  die.  He  did  not  die, 
however.  But  the  night  nurse  recorded,  "Pulse  very 
thin  and  iregular,"  at  four  o'clock. 

She,  too,  was  not  a  famous  speller. 

During  the  next  morning,  while  the  ward  rolled 
bandages,  having  carefully  scrubbed  its  hands  first, 
Jane  Brown  wrote  records — she  did  it  rather  well 
now — and  then  arranged  the  pins  in  the  ward  pin- 
cushion.   She  made  concentric  circles  of  safety-pins 


54  LOVE  STORIES 

outside  and  common  pins  inside,  with  a  large  H  in 
the  centre.  But  her  mind  was  not  on  this  artistic  bit 
of  creation.    It  was  on  Johnny  Fraser. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  speak  to  Doctor  Willie. 

Twenty-two  had  got  over  his  sulking  or  his  jeal- 
ousy, or  whatever  it  was,  and  during  the  early  hours, 
those  hours  when  Johnny  was  hardly  breathing,  he 
had  planned  something.  He  thought  that  he  did  it  to 
interest  the  patients  and  make  them  contented,  but 
somewhere  in  the  back*  of  his  mind  he  knew  it  was 
to  see  more  of  Jane  Brown.  He  planned  a  concert 
in  the  chapel. 

So  that  morning  he  took  Elizabeth,  the  plaster 
cast,  back  to  H  ward,  where  Jane  Brown  was  fixing 
the  pincushion,  and  had  a  good  minute  of  feasting 
his  eyes  on  her  while  she  was  sucking  a  jabbed  fin- 
ger. She  knew  she  should  have  dipped  the  finger  in 
a  solution,  but  habit  is  strong  in  most  of  us. 

Twenty-two  had  a  wild  desire  to  offer  to  kiss  the 
finger  and  make  it  well.  This,  however,  was  not 
habit.  It  was  insanity.  He  recognised  this  himself, 
and  felt  more  than  a  trifle  worried  about  it,  because 
he  had  been  in  love  quite  a  number  of  times  before, 
but  he  had  never  had  this  sort  of  feeling. 

He  put  the  concert  up  to  her  with  a  certain 
amount  of  anxiety.  If  she  could  sing,  or  play,  or 
recite — although  he  hoped  she  would  not  recite — all 
would  be  well.    But  if  she  refused  to  take  any  part, 


TWENTY-TWO  55 

he  did  not  intend  to  have  a  concert.    That  was  flat. 

"I  can  play,"  she  said,  making  a  neat  period  after 
the  H  on  the  pincushion. 

He  was  awfully  relieved. 

"Good,"  he  said.  "You  know,  I  like  the  way 
you  say  that.  It's  so — well,  it's  so  competent."  He 
got  out  a  notebook  and  wrote  "Miss  Brown,  piano 
selections." 

It  was  while  he  was  writing  that  Jane  Brown  had 
a  sort  of  mental  picture — the  shabby  piano  at  home, 
kicked  below  by  many  childish  feet,  but  mellow  and 
sweet,  like  an  old  violin,  and  herself  sitting  practis- 
ing, over  and  over,  that  part  of  Paderewski's  Minuet 
where,  as  every  one  knows,  the  fingering  is  rather 
difficult,  and  outside  the  open  window,  leaning  on 
his  broom,  worthless  Johnny  Fraser,  staring  in  with 
friendly  eyes  and  an  extremely  dirty  face.  To 
Twenty-two's  unbounded  amazement  she  flung  down 
the  cushion  and  made  for  the  little  ward  linen  room. 

He  found  her  there  a  moment  later,  her  arms  out- 
stretched on  the  table  and  her  face  buried  in  them. 
Some  one  had  been  boiling  a  rubber  tube  and  had 
let  the  pan  go  dry.  Ever  afterward  Twenty-two  was 
to  associate  the  smell  of  burning  rubber  with  Jane 
Brown,  and  with  his  first  real  knowledge  that  he  was 
in  love  with  her. 

He  stumped  in  after  her  and  closed  the  door,  and 
might  have  ruined  everything  then  and  there  by  tak- 


56  LOVE  STORIES 

ing  her  in  his  arms,  crutch  and  all.  But  the  smell 
of  burning  rubber  is  a  singularly  permeating  one, 
and  he  was  kept  from  one  indiscretion  by  being  dis- 
covered in  another. 

It  was  somewhat  later  that  Jane  Brown  was  rep- 
rimanded for  being  found  in  the  linen  room  with  a 
private  patient.  She  made  no  excuse,  but  something 
a  little  defiant  began  to  grow  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
not  that  she  loved  her  work  less.  She  was  learning, 
day  by  day,  the  endless  sacrifices  of  this  profession 
she  had  chosen,  its  unselfishness,  its  grinding  hard 
work,  the  payment  that  may  lie  in  a  smile  of  grati- 
tude, the  agony  of  pain  that  cannot  be  relieved. 
She  went  through  her  days  with  hands  held  out  for 
service,  and  at  night,  in  the  chapel,  she  whispered 
soundless  little  prayers  to  be  accepted,  and  to  be 
always  gentle  and  kind.  She  did  not  want  to  become 
a  machine.  She  knew,  although  she  had  no  words 
for  it,  the  difference  between  duty  and  service. 

But — a  little  spirit  of  rebellion  was  growing  in 
her  breast.  She  did  not  understand  about  Johnny 
Fraser,  for  one  thing.  And  the  matter  of  the  linen 
room  hurt.     There  seemed  to  be  too  many  rules. 

Then,  too,  she  began  to  learn  that  hospitals  had 
limitations.  Jane  Brown's  hospital  had  no  social 
worker.  Much  as  she  loved  the  work,  the  part  that 
the  hospital  could  not  do  began  to  hurt  her.  Before 
the  quarantine  women  with  new  babies  had  gone  out, 


TWENTY-TWO  57 

without  an  idea  of  where  to  spend  the  night.  Ail- 
ing children  had  gone  home  to  such  places  as  she 
could  see  from  the  dormitory  windows,  where  the 
work  the  hospital  had  begun  could  not  be  finished. 

From  the  roof  of  the  building  at  night  she  looked 
out  over  a  city  that  terrified  her.  The  call  of  a  play- 
ing child  in  the  street  began  to  sound  to  her  like  the 
shriek  of  accident.  The  very  grinding  of  the  trolley 
cars,  the  smoke  of  the  mills,  began  to  mean  the  op- 
erating room.  She  thought  a  great  deal,  those  days, 
about  the  little  town  she  had  come  from,  with  its 
peace  and  quiet  streets.  The  city  seemed  cruel. 
But  now  and  then  she  learned  that  if  cities  are  cruel, 
men  are  kind. 

Thus,  on  the  very  day  of  the  concert,  the  quar- 
antine was  broken  for  a  few  minutes.  It  was  broken 
forcibly,  and  by  an  officer  of  the  law.  A  little  new- 
sie,  standing  by  a  fire  at  the  next  corner,  for  the 
spring  day  was  cold,  had  caught  fire.  The  big  cor- 
ner man  had  seen  it  all.  He  stripped  off  his  over- 
coat, rolled  the  boy  in  it,  and  ran  to  the  hospital. 
Here  he  was  confronted  by  a  brother  officer,  who 
was  forbidden  to  admit  him.  The  corner  man  did 
the  thing  that  seemed  quickest.  He  laid  the  newsie 
on  the  ground,  knocked  out  the  quarantine  officer  in 
two  blows,  broke  the  glass  of  the  door  with  a  third, 
slipped  a  bolt,  and  then,  his  burden  in  his  arms, 
stalked  in. 


58  LOVE  STORIES 

It  did  not  lessen  the  majesty  of  that  entrance  that 
he  was  crying  all  the  time. 

The  Probationer  pondered  that  story  when  she 
heard  it.  After  all,  laws  were  right  and  good,  but 
there  were  higher  things  than  laws.  She  went  and 
stood  by  Johnny's  bed  for  a  long  time,  thinking. 

In  the  meantime,  unexpected  talent  for  the  con- 
cert had  developed.  The  piano  in  the  chapel  prov- 
ing out  of  order,  the  elevator  man  proved  to  have 
been  a  piano  tuner.  He  tuned  it  with  a  bone  for- 
ceps. Strange  places,  hospitals,  into  which  drift  men 
from  every  walk  of  life,  to  find  a  haven  and  peace 
within  their  quiet  walls.  Old  Tony  had  sung,  in 
his  youth,  in  the  opera  at  Milan.  A  pretty  young 
nurse  went  around  the  corridors  muttering  bits  of 
"Orphant  Annie"  to  herself.  The  Senior  Surgical 
Interne  was  to  sing  the  "Rosary,"  and  went  about 
practising  to  himself.  He  came  into  H  ward  and 
sang  it  through  for  Jane  Brown,  with  his  heart  in 
his  clear  young  eyes.  He  sang  about  the  hours  he 
had  spent  with  her  being  strings  of  pearls,  and  all 
that,  but  he  was  really  asking  her  if  she  would  be 
willing  to  begin  life  with  him  in  a  little  house,  where 
she  would  have  to  answer  the  door-bell  and  watch 
telephone  calls  while  he  was  out. 

Jane  Brown  felt  something  of  this,  too.  For  she 
said:  "You  sing  it  beautifully,"  although  he  had 
flatted  at  least  three  times. 


TWENTY-TWO 59 

He  wrote  his  name  on  a  medicine  label  and  glued 
it  to  her  hand.     It  looked  alarmingly  possessive. 

Twenty-two  presided  at  the  concert  that  night. 
He  was  extravagantly  funny,  and  the  sort  of  creak- 
ing solemnity  with  which  things  began  turned  to 
uproarious  laughter  very  soon. 

Everything  went  off  wonderfully.  Tony  started 
his  selection  too  high,  and  was  obliged  to  stop  and 
begin  over  again.  And  the  two  Silversteins,  from 
the  children's  ward,  who  were  to  dance  a  Highland 
fling  together,  had  a  violent  quarrel  at  the  last  mo- 
ment and  had  to  be  scratched.  But  everything  else 
went  well.  The  ambulance  driver  gave  a  bass  solo, 
and  kept  a  bar  or  two  ahead  of  the  accompaniment, 
dodging  chords  as  he  did  wagons  on  the  street,  and 
fetching  up  with  a  sort  of  garrison  finish  much  as 
he  brought  in  the  ambulance. 

But  the  real  musical  event  of  the  evening  was 
Jane  Brown's  playing.  She  played  Schubert  with- 
out any  notes,  because  she  had  been  taught  to  play 
Schubert  that  way. 

And  when  they  called  her  back,  she  played  little 
folk  songs  of  the  far  places  of  Europe.  Standing 
around  the  walls,  in  wheeled  chairs,  on  crutches,  pale 
with  the  hospital  pallor,  these  aliens  in  their  eddy 
listened  and  thrilled.  Some  of  them  wept,  but  they 
smiled  also. 

At  the  end  she  played  the  Minuet,  with  a  sort  of 


60  LOVE  STORIES 

flaming  look  in  her  eyes  that  puzzled  Twenty-two. 
He  could  not  know  that  she  was  playing  it  to  Johnny 
Fraser,  lying  with  closed  eyes  in  the  ward  upstairs. 
He  did  not  realise  that  there  was  a  passion  of  sac- 
rifice throbbing  behind  the  dignity  of  the  music. 

Doctor  Willie  had  stayed  over  for  the  concert. 
He  sat,  beaming  benevolently,  in  the  front  row, 
and  toward  the  end  he  got  up  and  told  some  stories. 
After  all,  it  was  Doctor  Willie  who  was  the  real  hit 
of  the  evening.  The  convalescents  rocked  with  joy 
in  their  roller  chairs.  Crutches  came  down  in  loud 
applause.  When  he  sat  down  he  slipped  a  big  hand 
over  Jane  Brown's  and  gave  hers  a  hearty  squeeze. 

"How  d'you  like  me  as  a  parlour  entertainer,  Nel- 
lie'?" he  whispered. 

She  put  her  other  hand  over  his.  Somehow  she 
could  not  speak. 

The  First  Assistant  called  to  the  Probationer  that 
night  as  she  went  past  her  door.  Lights  were  out,  so 
the  First  Assistant  had  a  candle,  and  she  was  rub- 
bing her  feet  with  witch  hazel. 

"Come  in,"  she  called.  "I  have  been  looking  for 
you.    I  have  some  news  for  you." 

The  exaltation  of  the  concert  had  died  away. 
Jane  Brown,  in  the  candle  light,  looked  small  and 
tired  and  very,  very  young. 

"We  have  watched  you  carefully,"  said  the  First 
Assistant,  who  had  her  night  garments  on  but  had 


TWENTY-TWO  61 

forgotten  to  take  off  her  cap.  "Although  you  are 
young,  you  have  shown  ability,  and — you  are  to  be 
accepted." 

"Thank  you,  very  much,"  replied  Jane  Brown, 
in  a,  strangled  tone. 

"At  first,"  said  the  First  Assistant,  "we  were  not 
sure.  You  were  very  young,  and  you  had  such  odd 
ideas.    You  know  that  yourself  now." 

She  leaned  down  and  pressed  a  sore  little  toe  with 
her  forefinger.  Then  she  sighed.  The  mention  of 
Jane  Brown's  youth  had  hurt  her,  because  she  was 
no  longer  very  young.  And  there  were  times  when 
she  was  tired,  when  it  seemed  to  her  that  only  youth 
counted.    She  felt  that  way  to-night. 

When  Jane  Brown  had  gone  on,  she  blew  out  her 
candle  and  went  to  bed,  still  in  her  cap. 

Hospitals  do  not  really  sleep  at  night.  The  ele- 
vator man  dozes  in  his  cage,  and  the  night  watch- 
man may  nap  in  the  engineer's  room  in  the  basement. 
But  the  night  nurses  are  always  making  their  sleep- 
less rounds,  and  in  the  wards,  dark  and  quiet,  rest- 
less figures  turn  and  sigh. 

Before  she  went  ,to  bed  that  night,  Jane  Brown, 
by  devious  ways,  slipped  back  to  her  ward.  It 
looked  strange  to  her,  this  cavernous  place,  filled 
with  the  unlovely  noises  of  sleeping  men.  By  the 
one  low  light  near  the  doorway  she  went  back  to 
Johnny's  bed,  and  sat  down  beside  him.     She  felt 


62  LOVE  STORIES 

that  this  was  the  place  to  think  things  out.  In  her 
room  other  things  pressed  in  on  her;  the  necessity 
of  making  good  for  the  sake  of  those  at  home,  her 
love  of  the  work,  and  cowardice.  But  here  she  saw 
things  right. 

The  night  nurse  found  her  there  some  time  later, 
asleep,  her  hunting-case  watch  open  on  Johnny's  bed 
and  her  fingers  still  on  his  quiet  wrist.  She  made 
no  report  of  it. 

Twenty-two  had  another  sleepless  night  written 
in  on  his  record  that  night.  He  sat  up  and  worried. 
He  worried  about  the  way  the  Senior  Surgical  In- 
terne had  sung  to  Jane  Brown  that  night.  And  he 
worried  about  things  he  had  done  and  shouldn't 
have,  and  things  he  should  have  done  and  hadn't. 
Mostly  the  first.  At  five  in  the  morning  he  wrote 
a  letter  to  his  family  telling  them  where  he  was, 
and  that  he  had  been  vaccinated  and  that  the  letter 
would  be  fumigated.  He  also  wrote  a  check  for  an 
artificial  leg  for  the  boy  in  the  children's  ward,  and 
then  went  to  bed  and  put  himself  to  sleep  by  recit- 
ing the  "Rosary"  over  and  over.  His  last  conscious 
thought  was  that  the  hours  he  had  spent  with  a  cer- 
tain person  would  not  make  much  of  a  string  of 
pearls. 

The  Probationer  went  to  Doctor  Willie  the  next 
day.     Some  of  the  exuberance  of  the  concert  still 


TWENTY-TWO 63 

bubbled  in  him,  although  he  shook  his  head  over 
Johnny's  record. 

"A  little  slow,  Nellie,"  he  said.     "A  little  slow." 

Jane  Brown  took  a  long  breath. 

"Doctor  Willie,"  she  said,  "won't  you  have  him 
operated  on?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  over  his  spectacles. 

"Operated  on4?    What  for?" 

"Well,  he's  not  getting  any  better,"  she  managed 
desperately.  "I'm — sometimes  I  think  he'll  die 
while  we're  waiting  for  him  to  get  better." 

He  was  surprised,  but  he  was  not  angry. 

"There's  no  fracture,  child,"  he  said  gently.  "If 
there  is  a  clot  there,  nature  is  probably  better  at 
removing  it  than  we  are.  The  trouble  with  you," 
he  said  indulgently,  "is  that  you  have  come  here, 
where  they  operate  first  and  regret  afterward.  Na- 
ture is  the  best  surgeon,  child." 

She  cast  about  her  despairingly  for  some  way 
to  tell  him  the  truth.  But  even  when  she  spoke  she 
knew  she  was  foredoomed  to  failure. 

"But — suppose  the  Staff  thinks  that  he  should 
be?" 

Doctor  Willie's  kindly  mouth  set  itself  into  grim 
lines. 

"The  Staff!"  he  said,  and  looked  at  her  search- 
ingly.    Then  his  jaws  set  at  an  obstinate  angle. 

"Well,  Nellie,"  he  said,  "I  guess  one  opinion's 


64  LOVE  STORIES 

as  good  as  another  in  these  cases.  And  I  don't  sup- 
pose they'll  do  any  cutting  and  hacking  without 
my  consent."  He  looked  at  Johnny's  unconscious 
figure.  "He  never  amounted  to  much,"  he  added, 
"but  it's  surprising  the  way  money's  been  coming 
in  to  pay  his  board  here.  Your  mother  sent  five  dol- 
lars. A  good  lot  of  people  are  interested  in  him.  I 
can't  see  myself  going  home  and  telling  them  he  died 
on  the  operating  table." 

He  patted  her  on  the  arm  as  he  went  out. 

"Don't  get  an  old  head  on  those  young  shoulders 
yet,  Nellie,"  he  said  as  he  was  going.  "Leave  the 
worrying  to  me.    I'm  used  to  it." 

She  saw  then  that  to  him  she  was  still  a  little 
girl.  She  probably  would  always  be  just  a  little 
girl  to  him.  He  did  not  take  her  seriously,  and  no 
one  else  would  speak  to  him.  She  was  quite  de- 
spairing. 

The  ward  loved  Doctor  Willie  since  the  night 
before.  It  watched  him  out  with  affectionate  eyes. 
Jane  Brown  watched  him,  too,  his  fine  old  head, 
the  sturdy  step  that  had  brought  healing  and  peace  to 
a  whole  county.  She  had  hurt  him,  she  knew  that. 
She  ached  at  the  thought  of  it.  And  she  had  done 
no  good. 

That  afternoon  Jane  Brown  broke  another  rule. 
She  went  to  Twenty-two  on  her  off  duty,  and  caused 
a  mild  furore  there.    He  had  been  drawing  a  sketch 


TWENTY-TWO  65 

of  her  from  memory,  an  extremely  poor  sketch,  with 
one  eye  larger  than  the  other.  He  hid  it  immedi- 
ately, although  she  could  not  possibly  have  recog- 
nised it,  and  talked  very  fast  to  cover  his  excitement. 

"Well,  well!"  he  said.  "I  knew  I  was  going  to 
have  some  luck  to-day.  My  right  hand  has  been 
itching — or  is  that  a  sign  of  money?"  Then  he  saw 
her  face,  and  reduced  his  speech  to  normality,  if  not 
his  heart. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  he  said.  "And  tell  me 
about  it." 

But  she  would  not  sit  down.  She  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out  for  a  moment.  It  was  from 
there  she  said: 

"I  have  been  accepted." 

"Good/"5  But  he  did  not,  apparently,  think  it  such 
good  news.  He  drew  a  long  breath.  "Well,  I  sup- 
pose your  friends  should  be  glad  for  you." 

'I  didn't  come  to  talk  about  being  accepted,"  she 
announced. 

"I  don't  suppose,  by  any  chance,  you  came  to  see 
how  I  am  getting  along?"  he  inquired  humbly. 

"I  can  see  that." 

"You  can't  see  how  lonely  I  am."  When  she  of- 
fered nothing  to  this  speech,  he  enlarged  on  it. 
"When  it  gets  unbearable,"  he  said,  "I  sit  in  front 
of  the  mirror  and  keep  myself  company.  If  that 
doesn't  make  your  heart  ache,  nothing  will." 


66  LOVE  STORIES 

"Pm  afraid  I  have  a  heart-ache,  but  it  is  not  that." 
For  a  terrible  moment  he  thought  of  that  theory  of 
his  which  referred  to  a  disappointment  in  love.  Was 
she  going  to  have  the  unbelievable  cruelty  to  tell 
him  about  it? 

"I  have  to  talk  to  somebody,"  she  said  simply. 
"And  I  came  to  you,  because  you've  worked  on  a 
newspaper,  and  you  have  had  a  lot  of  experience. 
It's— a  matter  of  ethics.  But  really  it's  a  matter 
of  life  and  death." 

He  felt  most  horribly  humble  before  her,  and  he 
hated  the  lie,  except  that  it  had  brought  her  to  him. 
There  was  something  so  direct  and  childlike  about 
her.  The  very  way  she  drew  a  chair  in  front  of 
him,  and  proceeded,  talking  rather  fast,  to  lay  the 
matter  before  him,  touched  him  profoundly.  He 
felt,  somehow,  incredibly  old  and  es  oerienced. 

And  then,  after  all  that,  to  fail  he  ! 

"You  see  how  it  is,"  she  finished.  "I  can't  go  to 
the  Staff,  and  they  wouldn't  do  anything  if  I  did — 
except  possibly  put  me  out.  Because  a  nurse  n  ally 
only  follows  orders.  And — I've  got  to  stay,  if  I 
can.  And  Doctor  Willie  doesn't  believe  in  an  op- 
eration and  won't  see  that  he's  dying.  And  every- 
body at  home  thinks  he  is  right,  because — well,"  she 
added  hastily,  "he's  been  right  a  good  many  times." 

He  listened  attentively.  His  record,  you  remem- 
ber, was  his  own  way  some  ninety-seven  per  cent  of 


TWENTY-TWO  67 

the  time,  and  at  first  he  would  not  believe  that  this 
was  going  to  be  the  three  per  cent,  or  a  part  of  it. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "we'll  just  make  the  Staff 
turn  in  and  do  it.    That's  easy." 

"But  they  won't.     They  can't." 

"We  can't  let  Johnny  die,  either,  can  we?" 

But  when  at  last  she  was  gone,  and  the  room  was 
incredibly  empty  without  her, — when,  to  confess  a 
fact  that  he  was  exceedingly  shame-faced  about,  he 
had  wheeled  over  to  the  chair  she  had  sat  in  and 
put  his  cheek  against  the  arm  where  her  hand  had 
rested,  when  he  was  somewhat  his  own  man  again 
and  had  got  over  the  feeling  that  his  arms  were 
empty  of  something  they  had  never  held — then  it 
was  that  Twenty-two  found  himself  up  against  the 
three  per  cent. 

The  hospital's  attitude  was  firm.  It  could  not 
interfere.  It  was  an  outside  patient  and  an  outside 
doctor.  Its  responsibility  ended  with  providing  for 
the  care  of  the  patient,  under  his  physician's  orders. 
It  was  regretful — but,  of  course,  unless  the  case  was 
turned  over  to  the  Staff 

He  went  back  to  the  ward  to  tell  her,  after  it  had 
all  been  explained  to  him.  But  she  was  not  sur- 
prised. He  saw  that,  after  all,  she  had  really  known 
he  was  going  to  fail  her. 

"It's  hopeless,"  was  all  she  said.  "Everybody  is 
right,  and  everybody  is  wrong." 


68 LOVE  STORIES 

It  was  the  next  day  that,  going  to  the  courtyard 
for  a  breath  of  air,  she  saw  a  woman  outside  the  iron 
gate  waving  to  her.  It  was  Johnny's  mother,  a  for- 
lorn old  soul  in  what  Jane  Brown  recognised  as  an 
old  suit  of  her  mother's. 

"Doctor  Willie  bought  my  ticket,  Miss  Nellie," 
she  said  nervously.  "It  seems  like  I  had  to  come, 
even  if  I  couldn't  get  in.  I've  been  waiting  around 
most  all  afternoon.    How  is  he*?" 

"He  is  resting  quietly,"  said  Jane  Brown,  hold- 
ing herself  very  tense,  because  she  wanted  to  scream. 
"He  isn't  suffering  at  all." 

"Could  you  tell  me  which  window  he's  near, 
Miss  Nellie^" 

She  pointed  out  the  window,  and  Johnny  Fraser's 
mother  stood,  holding  to  the  bars,  peering  up  at  it. 
Her  lips  moved,  and  Jane  Brown  knew  that  she 
was  praying.    At  last  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"Folks  have  said  a  lot  about  him,"  she  said,  "but 
he  was  always  a  good  son  to  me.  If  only  he'd  had 
a  chance — I'd  be  right  worried,  Miss  Nellie,  if  he 
didn't  have  Doctor  Willie  looking  after  him." 

Jane  Brown  went  into  the  building.  There  was 
just  one  thing  clear  in  her  mind.  Johnny  Fraser 
must  have  his  chance,  somehow. 

In  the  meantime  things  were  not  doing  any  too 
well  in  the  hospital.  A  second  case,  although  mild, 
had  extended  the  quarantine.    Discontent  grew,  and 


TWENTY-TWO 69 

threatened  to  develop  into  mutiny.  Six  men  from 
one  of  the  wards  marched  en  masse  to  the  lower  hall, 
and  were  preparing  to  rush  the  guards  when  they 
were  discovered.  The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  took 
two  prisoners  himself,  and  became  an  emergency 
case  for  two  stitches  and  arnica  compresses. 

Jane  Brown  helped  to  fix  him  up,  and  he  took 
advantage  of  her  holding  a  dressing  basin  near  his 
cut  lip  to  kiss  her  hand,  very  respectfully.  She 
would  have  resented  it  under  other  circumstances, 
but  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne  was,  even  if  tempo- 
rarily, a  patient,  and  must  be  humoured.  She  forgot 
about  the  kiss  immediately,  anyhow,  although  he 
did  not. 

Her  three  months  of  probation  were  drawing  to 
a  close  now,  and  her  cap  was  already  made  and  put 
away  in  a  box,  ready  for  the  day  she  should  don 
it.    But  she  did  not  look  at  it  very  often. 

And  all  the  time,  fighting  his  battle  with  youth 
and  vigour,  but  with  closed  eyes,  and  losing  it  day 
by  day,  was  Johnny  Fraser. 

Then,  one  night  on  the  roof,  Jane  Brown  had  to 
refuse  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne.  He  took  it  very 
hard. 

"We'd  have  been  such  pals,"  he  said,  rather  wist- 
fully, after  he  saw  it  was  no  use. 

"We  can  be,  anyhow." 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  with  some  bitterness,  "that 


70 LOVE  STORIES 

Fd  have  stood  a  better  chance  if  I'd  done  as  you 
wanted  me  to  about  that  fellow  in  your  ward,  gone 
to  the  staff  and  raised  hell." 

"I  wouldn't  have  married  you,"  said  Jane  Brown, 
"but  I'd  have  thought  you  were  pretty  much  of  a 
man." 

The  more  he  thought  about  that  the  less  he  liked 
it.    It  almost  kept  him  awake  that  night. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  Twenty-two  had  his 
idea.  He  ran  true  to  form,  and  carried  it  back  to 
Jane  Brown  for  her  approval.  But  she  was  not 
enthusiastic. 

"It  would  help  to  amuse  them,  of  course,  but  how 
can  you  publish  a  newspaper  without  any  news'?" 
she  asked,  rather  listlessly,  for  her. 

"News!  This  building  is  full  of  news.  I  have 
some  bits  already.  Listen!"  He  took  a  notebook 
out  of  his  pocket.  "The  stork  breaks  quarantine. 
New  baby  in  O  ward.  The  chief  engineer  has  de- 
veloped a  boil  on  his  neck.  Elevator  Man  arrested 
for  breaking  speed  limit.  Wanted,  four  square 
inches  of  cuticle  for  skin  grafting  in  W.  How's 
that1?    And  I'm  only  beginning." 

Jane  Brown  listened.  Somehow,  behind  Twenty- 
two's  lightness  of  tone,  she  felt  something  more  earn- 
est. She  did  not  put  it  into  words,  even  to  herself, 
but  she  divined  something  new,  a  desire  to  do  his  bit, 
there  in  the  hospital.    It  was,  if  she  had  only  known 


TWENTY-TWO  71 

it,  a  milestone  in  a  hitherto  unmarked  career. 
Twenty-two,  who  had  always  been  a  man,  was  by 
way  of  becoming  a  person. 

He  explained  about  publishing  it.  He  used  to 
run  a  typewriter  in  college,  and  the  convalescents 
could  mimeograph  it  and  sell  it.  There  was  a  mime- 
ographing machine  in  the  office. 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  came  in  just  then. 
Refusing  to  marry  him  had  had  much  the  effect  of 
smacking  a  puppy.  He  came  back,  a  trifle  timid,  but 
friendly.  So  he  came  in  just  then,  and  elected  him- 
self to  the  advertising  and  circulation  department, 
and  gave  the  Probationer  the  society  end,  although  it 
was  not  his  paper  or  his  idea,  and  sat  down  at  once 
at  the  table  and  started  a  limerick,  commencing: 

"We're  here  in  the  city,  marooned" 

However,  he  never  got  any  further  with  it,  be- 
cause there  are,  apparently,  no  rhymes  for  "ma- 
rooned." He  refused  "tuned"  which  several  people 
offered  him,  with  extreme  scorn. 

Up  to  this  point  Jane  Brown  had  been  rather  too 
worried  to  think  about  Twenty-two.  She  had  grown 
accustomed  to  seeing  him  coming  slowly  back  toward 
her  ward,  his  eyes  travelling  much  faster  than  he 
did.  Not,  of  course,  that  she  knew  that.  And  to 
his  being,  in  a  way,  underfoot  a  part  of  every  day, 


72  LOVE  STORIES 

after  the  Head  had  made  rounds  and  was  safely  out 
of  the  road  for  a  good  two  hours. 

But  two  things  happened  that  day  to  turn  her 
mind  in  onto  her  heart.  One  was  when  she  heard 
about  the  artificial  leg.  The  other  was  when  she 
passed  the  door  of  his  room,  where  a  large  card  now 
announced  "Office  of  the  Quarantine  Sentinel." 
She  passed  the  door,  and  she  distinctly  heard  most 
un-hospital-like  chatter  within.  Judging  from  the 
shadows  on  the  glass  door,  too,  the  room  was  full. 
It  sounded  joyous  and  carefree. 

Something  in  Jane  Brown — her  mind,  probably — 
turned  right  around  and  looked  into  her  heart,  and 
made  an  odd  discovery.  This  was  that  Jane  Brown's 
heart  had  sunk  about  two  inches,  and  was  feeling 
very  queer. 

She  went  straight  on,  however,  and  put  on  a  fresh 
collar  in  her  little  bedroom,  and  listed  her  washing 
and  changed  her  shoes,  because  her  feet  still  ached 
a  lot  of  the  time.  But  she  was  a  brave  person  and 
liked  to  look  things  in  the  face.  So  before  she  went 
back  to  the  ward,  she  stood  in  front  of  her  mirror 
and  said: 

"You're  a  nice  nurse,  Nell  Brown.  To — to  talk 
about  duty  and  brag  about  service,  and  then  to  act 
like  a  fool." 

She  went  back  to  the  ward  and  sat  beside  Johnny. 
But  that  night  she  went  up  on  the  roof  again,  and 


TWENTY-TWO 73 

sat  on  the  parapet.  She  could  see,  across  the  court- 
yard, the  dim  rectangles  of  her  ward,  and  around  a 
corner  in  plain  view,  "room  Twenty-two."  Its  oc- 
cupant was  sitting  at  the  typewriter,  and  working 
hard.  Or  he  seemed  to  be.  It  was  too  far  away  to 
be  sure.  Jane  Brown  slid  down  onto  the  roof,  which 
was  not  very  clean,  and  putting  her  elbows  on  the 
parapet,  watched  him  for  a  long  time.  When  he 
got  up,  at  last,  and  came  to  the  open  window,  she 
hardly  breathed.  However,  he  only  stood  there, 
looking  toward  her  but  not  seeing  her.  m 

Jane  Brown  put  her  head  on  the  parapet  that 
night  and  cried.  She  thought  she  was  crying  about 
Johnny  Fraser.  She  might  have  felt  somewhat  com- 
forted had  she  known  that  Twenty-two,  being  tired 
with  his  day's  work,  had  at  last  given  way  to  most 
horrible  jealousy  of  the  Senior  Surgical  Interne,  and 
that  his  misery  was  to  hers  as  five  is  to  one. 

The  first  number  of  the  Quarantine  Sentinel  was 
a  great  success.  It  served  in  the  wards  much  the 
same  purpose  as  the  magazines  published  in  the 
trenches.  It  relieved  the  monotony,  brought  the  dif- 
ferent wards  together,  furnished  laughter  and  gos- 
sip. Twenty-two  wrote  the  editorials,  published  the 
paper,  with  the  aid  of  a  couple  of  convalescents, 
and  in  his  leisure  drew  cartoons.  He  drew  very  well, 
but  all  his  girls  looked  like  Jane  Brown.  It  caused 
a  ripple  of  talk. 


74  LOVE  STORIES 

The  children  from  the  children's  ward  distributed 
them,  and  went  back  from  the  private  rooms  bear- 
ing tribute  of  flowers  and  fruit.  Twenty-two  him- 
self developed  a  most  reprehensible  habit  of  conceal- 
ing candy  in  the  Sentinel  office  and  smuggling  it  to 
his  carriers.  Altogether  a  new  and  neighbourly  feel- 
ing seemed  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  little  paper. 
People  who  had  sulked  in  side-by-side  rooms  began, 
in  the  relaxed  discipline  of  convalescence,  to  pay 
little  calls  about.  Crotchety  dowagers  knitted  socks 
for  new  babies.  A  wave  of  friendliness  swept  over 
every  one,  and  engulfed  particularly  Twenty-two. 

In  the  glow  of  it  he  changed  perceptibly.  This 
was  the  first  popularity  he  had  ever  earned,  and  the 
first  he  had  ever  cared  a  fi-penny  bit  about.  And, 
because  he  valuecj  it,  he  felt  more  and  more  un- 
worthy of  it. 

But  it  kept  him  from  seeing  Jane  Brown.  He  was 
too  busy  for  many  excursions  to  the  ward,  and  when 
he  went  he  was  immediately  the  centre  of  an  ani- 
mated group.  He  hardly  ever  saw  her  alone,  and 
when  he  did  he  began  to  suspect  that  she  pretended 
duties  that  might  have  waited. 

One  day  he  happened  to  go  back  while  Doctor 
Willie  was  there,  and  after  that  he  understood  her 
problem  better. 

Through  it  all  Johnny  lived.  His  thin,  young 
body  was  now  hardly  an  outline  under  the  smooth, 


TWENTY-TWO 75 

white  covering  of  his  bed.  He  swallowed,  faintly, 
such  bits  of  liquid  as  were  placed  between  his  lips, 
but  there  were  times  when  Jane  Brown's  fingers, 
more  expert  now,  could  find  no  pulse  at  all.  And 
still  she  had  found  no  way  to  give  him  his  chance. 

She  made  a  last  appeal  to  Doctor  Willie  that  day, 
but  he  only  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"Even  if  there  was  an  operation  now,  Nellie," 
said  Doctor  Willie  that  day,  "he  could  not  stand  it." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Twenty-two  had  known 
her  name  was  Nellie. 

That  was  the  last  day  of  Jane  Brown's  proba- 
tion. On  the  next  day  she  was  to  don  her  cap.  The 
Sentinel  came  out  with  a  congratulatory  editorial, 
and  at  nine  o'clock  that  night  the  First  Assistant 
brought  an  announcement,  in  the  Head's  own  writ- 
ing, for  the  paper. 

"The  Head  of  the  Training  School  announces 
with  much  pleasure  the  acceptance  of  Miss  N.  Jane 
Brown  as  a  pupil  nurse." 

Twenty-two  sat  and  stared  at  it  for  quite  a  long 
time. 

That  night  Jane  Brown  fought  her  battle  and 
won.  She  went  to  her  room  immediately  after 
chapel,  and  took  the  family  pictures  off  her  little 
stand  and  got  out  ink  and  paper.  She  put  the  photo- 
graphs out  of  sight,  because  she  knew  that  they 
were  counting  on  her,  and  she  could  not  bear  her 


76  LOVE  STORIES 

mother's  eyes.  And  then  she  counted  her  money, 
because  she  had  broken  another  thermometer,  and 
the  ticket  home  was  rather  expensive.  She  had 
enough,  but  very  little  more. 

After  that  she  went  to  work. 

It  took  her  rather  a  long  time,  because  she  had  a 
great  deal  to  explain.  She  had  to  put  her  case,  in 
fact.  And  she  was  not  strong  on  either  ethics  or 
logic.  She  said  so,  indeed,  at  the  beginning.  She 
said  also  that  she  had  talked  to  a  lot  of  people,  but 
that  no  one  understood  how  she  felt — that  there 
ought  to  be  no  professional  ethics,  or  etiquette,  or 
anything  else,  where  it  was  life  or  death.  That  she 
felt  hospitals  were  to  save  lives  and  not  to  save 
feelings.  It  seemed  necessary,  after  that,  to  defend 
Doctor  Willie — without  naming  him,  of  course. 
How  much  good  he  had  done,  and  how  he  came  to 
rely  on  himself  and  his  own  opinion  because  in  the 
country  there  was  no  one  to  consult  with. 

However,  she  was  not  so  gentle  with  the  Staff. 
She  said  that  it  was  standing  by  and  letting  a  patient 
die,  because  it  was  too  polite  to  interfere,  although 
they  had  all  agreed  among  themselves  that  an  opera- 
tion was  necessary.  And  that  if  they  felt  that  way, 
would  they  refuse  to  pull  a  child  from  in  front  of 
a  locomotive  because  it  was  its  mother's  business, 
and  she  didn't  know  how  to  do  it*? 

Then  she  signed  it. 


TWENTY-TWO  77 

She  turned  it  in  at  the  Sentinel  office  the  next 
morning  while  the  editor  was  shaving.  She  had  to 
pass  it  through  a  crack  in  the  door.  Even  that,  how- 
ever, was  enough  for  the  editor  in  question  to  see 
that  she  wore  no  cap. 

"But — see  here,"  he  said,  in  a  rather  lathery  voice, 
"you're  accepted,  you  know.  Where's  the — -the  vis- 
ible sign4?" 

Jane  Brown  was  not  quite  sure  she  could  speak. 
However,  she  managed. 

"After  you  read  that,"  she  said,  "you'll  under- 
stand." 

He  read  it  immediately,  of  course,  growing  more 
and  more  grave,  and  the  soap  drying  on  his  chin. 
Its  sheer  courage  made  him  gasp. 

"Good  girl,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Brave  little 
girl.    But  it  finishes  her  here,  and  she  knows  it." 

He  was  pretty  well  cut  up  about  it,  too,  because 
while  he  was  getting  it  ready  he  felt  as  if  he  was 
sharpening  a  knife  to  stab  her  with.  Her  own 
knife,  too.    But  he  had  to  be  as  brave  as  she  was. 

The  paper  came  out  at  two  o'clock.  At  three  the 
First  Assistant,  looking  extremely  white,  relieved 
Jane  Brown  of  the  care  of  H  ward  and  sent  her  to 
her  room. 

Jane  Brown  eyed  her  wistfully. 

"I'm  not  to  come  back,  I  suppose4?" 

The  First  Assistant  avoided  her  eyes. 


78 LOVE  STORIES 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  she  said. 

Jane  Brown  went  up  the  ward  and  looked  down 
at  Johnny  Fraser.  Then  she  gathered  up  her  band- 
age scissors  and  her  little  dressing  forceps  and  went 
out. 

The  First  Assistant  took  a  step  after  her,  but 
stopped.    There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Things  moved  very  rapidly  in  the  hospital  that 
day,  while  the  guards  sat  outside  on  their  camp- 
stools  and  ate  apples  or  read  the  newspapers,  and 
while  Jane  Brown  sat  alone  in  her  room. 

First  of  all  the  Staff  met  and  summoned  Twenty- 
two.  He  went  down  in  the  elevator — he  had  lost 
Elizabeth  a  few  days  before,  and  was  using  a  cane — 
ready  for  trouble.  He  had  always  met  a  fight  more 
than  halfway.  It  was  the  same  instinct  that  had 
taken  him  to  the  fire. 

But  no  one  wanted  to  fight.  The  Staff  was  wait- 
ing, grave  and  perplexed,  but  rather  anxious  to  put 
its  case  than  otherwise.  It  felt  misunderstood,  ag- 
grieved, and  horribly  afraid  it  was  going  to  get  in 
the  newspapers.  But  it  was  not  angry.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  trying  its  extremely  intelligent  best 
to  see  things  from  a  new  angle. 

The  Senior  Surgical  Interne  was  waiting  outside. 
He  had  smoked  eighteen  cigarettes  since  he  received 
his  copy  of  the  Sentinel,  and  was  as  unhappy  as  an 
interne  can  be. 


TWENTY-TWO 79 

"What  the  devil  made  you  publish  it?"  he  de- 
manded. 

Twenty-two  smiled. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "I  have  always  had  a  sneak- 
ing desire  to  publish  an  honest  paper,  one  where 
public  questions  can  be  discussed.  If  this  isn't  a 
public  question,  I  don't  know  one  when  I  see  it." 

But  he  was  not  smiling  when  he  went  in. 

An  hour  later  Doctor  Willie  came  in.  He  had 
brought  some  flowers  for  the  children's  ward,  and 
his  arms  were  bulging.  To  his  surprise,  accustomed 
as  he  was  to  the  somewhat  cavalier  treatment  of  the 
country  practitioner  in  a  big  city  hospital,  he  was 
invited  to  the  Staff  room. 

To  the  eternal  credit  of  the  Staff  Jane  Brown's 
part  in  that  painful  half  hour  was  never  known.  The 
Staff  was  careful,  too,  of  Doctor  Willie.  They  knew 
they  were  being  irregular,  and  were  most  wretchedly 
uncomfortable.  Also,  there  being  six  of  them  against 
one,  it  looked  rather  like  force,  particularly  since, 
after  the  first  two  minutes,  every  one  of  them  liked 
Doctor  Willie. 

He  took  it  so  awfully  well.  He  sat  there,  with 
his  elbows  on  a  table  beside  a  withering  mass  of 
spring  flowers,  and  faced  the  white-coated  Staff,  and 
said  that  he  hoped  he  was  man  enough  to  acknowl- 
edge a  mistake,  and  six  opinions  against  one  left 
him  nothing  else  to  do.  The  Senior  Surgical  Interne, 


80 LOVE  STORIES 

who  had  been  hating  him  for  weeks,  offered  him  a 
cigar. 

He  had  only  one  request  to  make.  There  was  a 
little  girl  in  the  training  school  who  believed  in  him, 
and  he  would  like  to  go  to  the  ward  and  write  the 
order  for  the  operation  himself. 

Which  he  did.    But  Jane  Brown  was  not  there. 

Late  that  evening  the  First  Assistant,  passing 
along  the  corridor  in  the  dormitory,  was  accosted  by 
a  quiet  figure  in  a  blue  uniform,  without  a  cap. 

"How  is  he?" 

The  First  Assistant  was  feeling  more  cheerful  than 
usual.  The  operating  surgeon  had  congratulated  her 
on  the  way  things  had  moved  that  day,  and  she  was 
feeling,  as  she  often  did,  that,  after  all,  work  was  a 
solace  for  many  troubles. 

"Of  course,  it  is  very  soon,  but  he  stood  it  well." 
She  looked  up  at  Jane  Brown,  who  was  taller  than 
she  was,  but  who  always,  somehow,  looked  rather 
little.  There  are  girls  like  that.  "Look  here,"  she 
said,  "you  must  not  sit  in  that  room  and  worry. 
Run  up  to  the  operating-room  and  help  to  clear 
away." 

She  was  very  wise,  the  First  Assistant.  For  Jane 
Brown  went,  and  washed  away  some  of  the  ache 
with  the  stains  of  Johnny's  operation.  Here,  all 
about  her,  were  the  tangible  evidences  of  her  tri- 
umph, which  was  also  a  defeat.     A  little  glow  of 


TWENTY-TWO 81 

service  revived  in  her.  If  Johnny  lived,  it  was  a 
small  price  to  pay  for  a  life.  If  he  died,  she  had 
given  him  his  chance.  The  operating-room  nurses 
were  very  kind.  They  liked  her  courage,  but  they 
were  frightened,  too.  She,  like  the  others,  had  been 
right,  but  also  she  was  wrong. 

They  paid  her  tribute  of  little  kindnesses,  but  they 
knew  she  must  go. 

It  was  the  night  nurse  who  told  Twenty-two  that 
Jane  Brown  was  in  the  operating-room.  He  was 
still  up  and  dressed  at  midnight,  but  the  sheets  of 
to-morrow's  editorial  lay  blank  on  his  table. 

The  night  nurse  glanced  at  her  watch  to  see  if  it 
was  time  for  the  twelve  o'clock  medicines. 

"There's  a  rumour  going  about,"  she  said,  "that 
the  quarantine's  to  be  lifted  to-morrow.  I'll  be 
rather  sorry.    It  has  been  a  change." 

"To-morrow,"  said  Twenty- two,  in  a  startled 
voice. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  going  out  at  once?" 

There  was  a  wistful  note  in  her  voice.  She  liked 
him.  He  had  been  an  oasis  of  cheer  in  the  dreary 
rounds  of  the  night.  A  very  little  more,  and  she 
might  have  forgotten  her  rule,  which  was  never  to 
be  sentimentally  interested  in  a  patient. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Twenty-two,  in  a  curious  tone, 
"if  you  will  give  me  my  cane?" 

He  was  clad,  at  that  time,  in  a  hideous  bathrobe, 


82  LOVE  STORIES 

purchased  by  the  orderly,  over  his  night  clothing, 
and  he  had  the  expression  of  a  person  who  intends  to 
take  no  chances. 

"Thanks/'  said  Twenty-two.  "And — will  you 
send  the  night  watchman  here?" 

The  night  nurse  went  out.  She  had  a  distinct  feel- 
ing that  something  was  about  to  happen.  At  least 
she  claimed  it  later.  But  she  found  the  night  watch- 
man making  coffee  in  a  back  pantry,  and  gave  him 
her  message. 

Some  time  later  Jane  Brown  stood  in  the  doorway 
of  the  operating-room  and  gave  it  a  farewell  look. 
Its  white  floor  and  walls  were  spotless.  Shining 
rows  of  instruments  on  clean  towels  were  ready  to 
put  away  in  the  cabinets.  The  sterilisers  glowed  in 
warm  rectangles  of  gleaming  copper.  Over  all 
brooded  the  peace  of  order,  the  quiet  of  the  night. 

Outside  the  operating-room  door  she  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  faced  the  night  watchman.  She  had  left 
something  in  Twenty-two.  Would  she  go  and  get 
it? 

"It's  very  late,"  said  Jane  Brown.  "And  it  isn't 
allowed,  I'm  sure." 

However,  what  was  one  more  rule  to  her  who  had 
defied  them  all?  A  spirit  of  recklessness  seized  her. 
After  all,  why  not?  She  would  never  see  him  again. 
Like  the  operating-room,  she  would  stand  in  the 
doorway  and  say  a  mute  little  farewell. 


TWENTY-TWO  83 

Twenty-two's  door  was  wide  open,  and  he  was 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  looking  out.  He 
had  heard  her  long  before  she  came  in  sight,  for  he, 
too,  had  learned  the  hospital  habit  of  classifying 
footsteps. 

He  was  horribly  excited.  He  had  never  been  so 
nervous  before.  He  had  made  up  a  small  speech,  a 
sort  of  beginning,  but  he  forgot  it  the  moment  he 
heard  her,  and  she  surprised  him  in  the  midst  of 
trying,  agonisingly,  to  remember  it. 

There  was  a  sort  of  dreadful  calm,  however,  about 
Jane  Brown. 

"The  watchman  says  I  have  left  something  here." 

It  was  clear  to  him  at  once  thajt  he  meant  nothing 
to  her.    It  was  in  her  voice. 

"You  did,"  he  said.    And  tried  to  smile. 

"Then — if  I  may  have  it " 

"I  wish  to  heaven  you  could  have  it,"  he  said,  very 
rapidly.    "I  don't  want  it.    It's  darned  miserable." 

"It's— what?" 

"It's  an  ache,"  he  went  on,  still  rather  incoherent. 
"A  pain.  A  misery."  Then,  seeing  her  beginning 
to  put  on  a  professional  look:  "No,  not  that.  It's 
a  feeling.  Look  here,"  he  said,  rather  more  slowly, 
"do  you  mind  coming  in  and  closing  the  door? 
There's  a  man  across  who's  always  listening." 

She  went  in,  but  she  did  not  close  the  door.  She 
went  slowly,  looking  rather  pale. 


84 LOVE  STORIES 

"What  I  sent  for  you  for  is  this,"  said  Twenty- 
two,  "are  you  going  away?  Because  I've  got  to 
know." 

"I'm  being  sent  away  as  soon  as  the  quarantine  is 
over.  It's — it's  ^perfectly  right.  I  expected  it. 
Things  would  soon  go  to  pieces  if  the  nurses  took  to 
— took  to  doing  what  I  did." 

Suddenly  Twenty-two  limped  across  the  room  and 
slammed  the  door  shut,  a  proceeding  immediately 
followed  by  an  irritated  ringing  of  bells  at  the  night 
nurse's  desk.  Then  he  turned,  his  back  against  the 
door. 

"Because  I'm  going  when  you  do,"  he  said,  in  a 
terrible  voice.  "I'm  going  when  you  go,  and  wher- 
ever you  go.  I've  stood  all  the  waiting  around  for 
a  glimpse  of  you  that  I'm  going  to  stand."  He 
glared  at  her.  "For  weeks,"  he  said,  "I've  sat  here 
in  this  room  and  listened  for  you,  and  hated  to  go 
to  sleep  for  fear  you  would  pass  and  I  wouldn't  be 
looking  through  that  damned  door.  And  now  I've 
reached  the  limit." 

A  sort  of  band  which  had  seemed  to  be  fastened 
around  Jane  Brown's  head  for  days  suddenly  re- 
moved itself  to  her  heart,  which  became  extremely 
irregular. 

"And  I  want  to  say  this,"  went  on  Twenty-two, 
still  in  a  savage  tone.  He  was  horribly  frightened, 
so  he  blustered.    "I  don't  care  whether  you  want  me 


TWENTY-TWO  85 

r— — ■ 

or  not,  you've  got  to  have  me.  I'm  so  much  in  love 
with  you  that  it  hurts." 

Suddenly  Jane  Brown's  heart  settled  down  into 
a  soft  rhythmic  beating  that  was  like  a  song.  After 
all,  life  was  made  up  of  love  and  work,  and  love 
came  first. 

She  faced  Twenty-two  with  brave  eyes. 

"I  love  you,  too — so  much  that  it  hurts." 

The  gentleman  across  the  hall,  sitting  up  in  bed, 
with  an  angry  thumb  on  the  bell,  was  electrified  to 
see,  on  the  glass  door  across,  the  silhouette  of  a  young 
lady  without  a  cap  go  into  the  arms  of  a  very  large, 
masculine  silhouette  in  a  dressing-gown.  He  heard, 
too,  the  thump  of  a  falling  cane. 

Late  that  night  Jane  Brown,  by  devious  ways, 
made  her  way  back  to  H  ward.  Johnny  was  there, 
a  strange  Johnny  with  a  bandaged  head,  but  with 
open  eyes. 

At  dawn,  the  dawn  of  the  day  when  Jane  Brown 
was  to  leave  the  little  world  of  the  hospital  for  a 
little  world  of  two,  consisting  of  a  man  and  a 
woman,  the  night  nurse  found  her  there,  asleep,  her 
fingers  still  on  Johnny's  thin  wrist. 

She  did  not  report  it. 


JANE 


JANE 


HAVING  retired  to  a  hospital  to  sulk,  Jane 
remained  there.  The  family  came  and  sat 
by  her  bed  uncomfortably  and  smoked,  and  finally 
retreated  with  defeat  written  large  all  over  it,  leav- 
ing Jane  to  the  continued  possession  of  Room  33, 
a  pink  kimono  with  slippers  to  match,  a  hand-em- 
broidered face  pillow  with  a  rose-coloured  bow  on 
the  corner,  and  a  young  nurse  with  a  gift  of  giving 
Jane  daily  the  appearance  of  a  strawberry  and  va- 
nilla ice  rising  from  a  meringue  of  bed  linen. 

Jane's  complaint  was  temper.  The  family  knew 
this,  and  so  did  Jane,  although  she  had  an  annoying 
way  of  looking  hurt,  a  gentle  heart-brokenness  of 
speech  that  made  the  family,  under  the  pretence  of 
getting  a  match,  go  out  into  the  hall  and  swear 
softly  under  its  breath.  But  it  was  temper,  and  the 
family  was  not  deceived.  Also,  knowing  Jane,  the 
family  was  quite  ready  to  believe  that  while  it  was 
swearing  in  the  hall,  Jane  was  biting  holes  in  the 
hand-embroidered  face  pillow  in  Room  33. 

89 


90 LOVE  STORIES 

It  had  finally  come  to  be  a  test  of  endurance. 
Jane  vowed  to  stay  at  the  hospital  until  the  family 
on  bended  knee  begged  her  to  emerge  and  to  brighten 
the  world  again  with  her  presence.  The  family,  be- 
ing her  father,  said  it  would  be  damned  if  it  would, 
and  that  if  Jane  cared  to  live  on  ansemic  chicken 
broth,  oatmeal  wafers  and  massage  twice  a  day  for 
the  rest  of  her  life,  why,  let  her. 

The  dispute,  having  begun  about  whether  Jane 
should  or  should  not  marry  a  certain  person,  Jane 
representing  the  affirmative  and  her  father  the  neg- 
ative, had  taken  on  new  aspects,  had  grown  and  al- 
tered, and  had,  to  be  brief,  become  a  contest  between 
the  masculine  Johnson  and  the  feminine  Johnson 
as  to  which  would  take  the  count.  Not  that  this 
appeared  on  the  surface.  The  masculine  Johnson, 
having  closed  the  summer  home  on  Jane's  defection 
and  gone  back  to  the  city,  sent  daily  telegrams, 
novels  and  hothouse  grapes,  all  three  of  which  Jane 
devoured  indiscriminately.  Once,  indeed,  Father 
Johnson  had  motored  the  forty  miles  from  town,  to 
be  told  that  Jane  was  too  ill  and  unhappy  to  see 
him,  and  to  have  a  glimpse,  as  he  drove  furiously 
away,  of  Jane  sitting  pensive  at  her  window  in  the 
pink  kimono,  gazing  over  his  head  at  the  distant 
hills  and  clearly  entirely  indifferent  to  him  and  his 
wrath. 

So  we  find  Jane,  on  a  frosty  morning  in  late 


JANE  91 


October,  in  triumphant  possession  of  the  field — 
aunts  and  cousins  routed,  her  father  sulking  in  town, 
and  the  victor  herself — or  is  victor  feminine1? — and 
if  it  isn't,  shouldn't  it  be? — sitting  up  in  bed  star- 
ing blankly  at  her  watch. 

Jane  had  just  wakened — an  hour  later  than  usual; 
she  had  rung  the  bell  three  times  and  no  one  had 
responded.  Jane's  famous  temper  began  to  stretch 
and  yawn.  At  this  hour  Jane  was  accustomed  to 
be  washed  with  tepid  water,  scented  daintily  with 
violet,  alcohol-rubbed,  talcum-powdered,  and  finally 
fresh-linened,  coifed  and  manicured,  to  be  supported 
with  a  heap  of  fresh  pillows  and  fed  creamed  sweet- 
bread and  golden-brown  coffee  and  toast. 

Jane  rang  again,  with  a  line  between  her  eye- 
brows. The  bell  was  not  broken.  She  could  hear 
it  distinctly.  This  was  an  outrage !  She  would  re- 
port it  to  the  superintendent.  She  had  been  ringing 
for  ten  minutes.  That  little  minx  of  a  nurse  was 
flirting  somewhere  with  one  of  the  internes. 

Jane  angrily  flung  the  covers  back  and  got  out 
on  her  small  bare  feet.  Then  she  stretched  her  slim 
young  arms  above  her  head,  her  spoiled  red  mouth 
forming  a  scarlet  O  as  she  yawned.  In  her  sleeve- 
less and  neckless  nightgown,  with  her  hair  over  her 
shoulders,  minus  the  more  elaborate  coiffure  which 
later  in  the  day  helped  her  to  poise  and  firmness,  she 


92  LOVE  STORIES 

looked  a  pretty  young  girl,  almost — although  Jane 
herself  never  suspected  this — almost  an  amiable 
young  person. 

Jane  saw  herself  in  the  glass  and  assumed  imme- 
diately the  two  lines  between  her  eyebrows  which 
were  the  outward  and  visible  token  of  what  she  had 
suffered.  Then  she  found  her  clippers,  a  pair  of 
stockings  to  match  and  two  round  bits  of  pink  silk 
elastic  of  private  and  feminine  use,  and  sat  down  on 
the  floor  to  put  them  on. 

The  floor  was  cold.  To  Jane's  wrath  was  added 
indignation.  She  hitched  herself  along  the  boards 
to  the  radiator  and  put  her  hand  on  it.  It  was  even 
colder  than  Jane. 

The  family  temper  was  fully  awake  by  this  time 
and  ready  for  business.  Jane,  sitting  on  the  icy 
floor,  jerked  on  her  stockings,  snapped  the  pink 
bands  into  place,  thrust  her  feet  into  her  slippers 
and  rose,  shivering.  She  went  to  the  bed,  and  by 
dint  of  careful  manoeuvring  so  placed  the  bell  be- 
tween the  head  of  the  bed  and  the  wall  that  during 
the  remainder  of  her  toilet  it  rang  steadily. 

The  remainder  of  Jane's  toilet  was  rather  casual. 
She  flung  on  the  silk  kimono,  twisted  her  hair  on  top 
of  her  head  and  stuck  a  pin  or  two  in  it,  thus  achiev- 
ing a  sort  of  effect  a  thousand  times  more  bewildering 
than  she  had  ever  managed  with  a  curling  iron  and 


JANE  93 


twenty  seven  hair  pins,  and  flinging  her  door  wide 
stalked  into  the  hall.  At  least  she  meant  to  stalk, 
but  one  does  not  really  stamp  about  much  in  num- 
ber-two, heelless,  pink-satin  mules. 

At  the  first  stalk — or  stamp — she  stopped.  Stand- 
ing uncertainly  just  outside  her  door  was  a  strange 
man,  strangely  attired.  Jane  clutched  her  kimono 
about  her  and  stared. 

"Did — did  you — are  you  ringing  ?"  asked  the  ap- 
parition. It  wore  a  pair  of  white-duck  trousers, 
much  soiled,  a  coat  that  bore  the  words  "furnace 
room"  down  the  front  in  red  letters  on  a  white  tape, 
and  a  clean  and  spotless  white  apron.  There  was 
coal  dust  on  its  face  and  streaks  of  it  in  its  hair, 
which  appeared  normally  to  be  red. 

"There's  something  the  matter  with  your  bell," 
said  the  young  man.     "It  keeps  on  ringing." 

"I  intend  it  to,"  said  Jane  coldly. 

"You  can't  make  a  racket  like  that  round  here, 
you  know,"  he  asserted,  looking  past  her  into  the 
room. 

"I  intend  to  make  all  the  racket  I  can  until  I  get 
some  attention." 

"What  have  you  done — put  a  book  on  it?" 

"Look  here" — Jane  added  another  line  to  the  two 
between  her  eyebrows.  In  the  family  this  was  gen- 
erally a  signal  for  a  retreat,  but  of  course  the  young 


94 LOVE  STORIES 

man  could  not  know  this,  and,  besides,  he  was  red- 
headed. "Look  here,"  said  Jane,  "I  don't  know 
who  you  are  and  I  don't  care  either,  but  that  bell  is 
going  to  ring  until  I  get  my  bath  and  some  break- 
fast.   And  it's  going  to  ring  then  unless  I  stop  it." 

The  young  man  in  the  coal  dust  and  the  white 
apron  looked  at  Jane  and  smiled.  Then  he  walked 
past  her  into  the  room,  jerked  the  bed  from  the  wall 
and  released  the  bell. 

"Now !"  he  said  as  the  din  outside  ceased.  "I'm 
too  busy  to  talk  just  at  present,  but  if  you  do  that 
again  I'll  take  the  bell  out  of  the  room  altogether. 
There  are  other  people  in  the  hospital  besides  your- 
self." 

At  that  he  started  out  and  along  the  hall,  leaving 
Jane  speechless.  After  he'd  gone  about  a  dozen  feet 
he  stopped  and  turned,  looking  at  Jane  reflectively. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  cooking?"  he 
asked. 

"I  know  more  about  cooking  than  you  do  about 
politeness,"  she  retorted,  white  with  fury,  and  went 
into  her  room  and  slammed  the  door.  She  went  di- 
rectly to  the  bell  and  put  it  behind  the  bed  and  set 
it  to  ringing  again.  Then  she  sat  down  in  a  chair 
and  picked  up  a  book.  Had  the  red-haired  person 
opened  the  door  she  was  perfectly  prepared  to  fling 
the  book  at  him.  She  would  have  thrown  a  hatchet 
had  she  had  one. 


JANE  95 


As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  he  did  not  come 
back.  The  bell  rang  with  a  soul-satisfying  jangle 
for  about  two  minutes  and  then  died  away,  and  no 
amount  of  poking  with  a  hairpin  did  any  good.  It 
was  clear  that  the  bell  had  been  cut  off  outside ! 

For  fifty-five  minutes  Jane  sat  in  that  chair 
breakfastless,  very  casually  washed  and  with  the 
aforesaid  Billie  Burkeness  of  hair.  Then,  hunger 
gaining  over  temper,  she  opened  the  door  and  peered 
out.  From  somewhere  near  at  hand  there  came  a 
pungent  odor  of  burning  toast.  Jane  sniffed;  then, 
driven  by  hunger,  she  made  a  short  sally  down  the 
hall  to  the  parlour  where  the  nurses  on  duty  made 
their  headquarters.  It  was  empty.  The  dismantled 
bell  register  was  on  the  wall,  with  the  bell  unscrewed 
and  lying  on  the  mantel  beside  it,  and  the  odour  of 
burning  toast  was  stronger  than  ever. 

Jane  padded  softly  to  the  odour,  following  her 
small  nose.  It  led  her  to  the  pantry,  where  under 
ordinary  circumstances  the  patients'  trays  were  pre- 
pared by  a  pantrymaid,  the  food  being  shipped 
there  from  the  kitchen  on  a  lift.  Clearly  the  circum- 
stances were  not  ordinary.  The  pantrymaid  was 
not  in  sight. 

Instead,  the  red-haired  person  was  standing  by 
the  window  scraping  busily  at  a  blackened  piece 
of  toast.  There  was  a  rank  odour  of  boiling  tea  in 
the  air. 


96  LOVE  STORIES 

"Damnation!"  said  the  red-haired  person,  and 
flung  the  toast  into  a  corner  where  there  already  lay 
a  small  heap  of  charred  breakfast  hopes.  Then  he 
saw  Jane. 

"I  fixed  the  bell,  didn't  IV  he  remarked.  "I  say, 
since  you  claim  to  know  so  much  about  cooking,  I 
wish  you'd  make  some  toast." 

"I  didn't  say  I  knew  much,"  snapped  Jane,  hold- 
ing her  kimono  round  her.  "I  said  I  knew  more 
than  you  knew  about  politeness." 

The  red-haired  person  smiled  again,  and  then, 
making  a  deep  bow,  with  a  knife  in  one  hand  and  a 
toaster  in  the  other9  he  said:  "Madam,  I  prithee 
forgive  me  for  my  untoward  conduct  of  an  hour 
since.    Say  but  the  word  and  I  replace  the  bell." 

"I  won't  make  any  toast,"  said  Jane,  looking  at 
the  bread  with  famished  eyes. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  red-haired  person  with 
a  sigh.     "On  your  head  be  it!" 

"But  I'll  tell  you  how  to  do  it,"  conceded  Jane, 
"if  you'll  explain  who  you  are  and  what  you  are 
doing  in  that  costume  and  where  the  nurses  are." 

The  red-haired  person  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
table  and  looked  at  her. 

"I'll  make  a  bargain  with  you,"  he  said.  "There's 
a  convalescent  typhoid  in  a  room  near  yours  who 
swears  he'll  go  down  to  the  village  for  something 
to  eat  in  his — er — hospital  attire  unless  he's  fed 


JANE  97 


soon.  He's  dangerous,  empty.  He's  reached  the 
cannibalistic  stage.  If  he  should  see  you  in  that 
ravishing  pink  thing,  I — I  wouldn't  answer  for  the 
consequences.  I'll  tell  you  everything  if  you'll  make 
him  six  large  slices  of  toast  and  boil  him  four  or 
five  eggs,  enough  to  hold  him  for  a  while.  The  tea's 
probably  ready;  it's  been  boiling  for  an  hour." 

Hunger  was  making  Jane  human.  She  gathered 
up  the  tail  of  her  kimono,  and  stepping  daintily 
into  the  pantry  proceeded  to  spread  herself  a  slice 
of  bread  and  butter. 

"Where  is  everybody*?"  she  asked,  licking  some 
butter  off  her  thumb  with  a  small  pink  tongue. 

Oh9  I  am  the  cook  and  the  captain  bold, 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  the  bosun  tight  and  the  midshipmite, 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

recited  the  red-haired  person. 

"You !"  said  Jane  with  the  bread  halfway  to  her 
mouth. 

"Even  I,"  said  the  red-haired  person.  "I'm  the 
superintendent,  the  staff,  the  training  school,  the 
cooks,  the  furnace  man  and  the  ambulance  driver." 

Jane  was  pouring  herself  a  cup  of  tea,  and  she 
put  in  milk  and  sugar  and  took  a  sip  or  two  before 
she  would  give  him  the  satisfaction  of  asking  him 


98 LOVE  STORIES 

what  he  meant.  Anyhow,  probably  she  had  already 
guessed.    Jane  was  no  fool. 

"I  hope  you're  getting  the  salary  list,"  she  said, 
sitting  on  the  pantry  girl's  chair  and,  what  with  the 
tea  inside  and  somebody  to  quarrel  with,  feeling 
more  like  herself.  "My  father's  one  of  the  direc- 
tors, and  somebody  gets  it." 

The  red-haired  person  sat  on  the  radiator  and 
eyed  Jane.  He  looked  slightly  stunned,  as  if  the 
presence  of  beauty  in  a  Billie  Burke  chignon  and 
little  else  except  a  kimono  was  almost  too  much  for 
him.  From  somewhere  near  by  came  a  terrific 
thumping,  as  of  some  one  pounding  a  hairbrush  on 
a  table.  The  red-haired  person  shifted  along  the 
radiator  a  little  nearer  Jane,  and  continued  to  gloat. 

"Don't  let  that  noise  bother  you,"  he  said; 
"that's  only  the  convalescent  typhoid  banging  for 
his  breakfast.  He's  been  shouting  for  food  ever 
since  I  came  at  six  last  night."     * 

"Is  it  safe  to  feed  him  so  much?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  hasn't  had  anything  yet. 
Perhaps  if  you're  ready  you'd  better  fix  him  some- 
thing." 

Jane  had  finished  her  bread  and  tea  by  this  time 
and  remembered  her  kimono. 

"I'll  go  back  and  dress,"  she  said  primly.  But 
he  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 

"He's  starving,"  he  objected  as  a  fresh  volley  of 


JANE  99 


thumps  came  along  the  hall.  "I've  been  trying  at 
intervals  since  daylight  to  make  him  a  piece  of  toast. 
The  minute  I  put  it  on  the  fire  I  think  of  something 
I've  forgotten,  and  when  I  come  back  it's  in  flames." 

So  Jane  cut  some  bread  and  put  on  eggs  to  boil, 
and  the  red-haired  person  told  his  story. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "although  I  appear  to  be 
a  furnace  man  from  the  waist  up  and  an  interne 
from  the  waist  down,  I  am  really  the  new  superin- 
tendent." 

"I  hope  you'll  do  better  than  the  last  one,"  she 
said  severely.  "He  was  always  flirting  with  the 
nurses." 

"I  shall  never  flirt  with  the  nurses,"  he  promised, 
looking  at  her.  "Anyhow  I  shan't  have  any  imme- 
diate chance.  The  other  fellow  left  last  night  and 
took  with  him  everything  portable  except  the  am- 
bulance— nurses,  staff,  cooks.  I  wish  to  Heaven 
he'd  taken  the  patients !  And  he  did  more  than  that. 
He  cut  the  telephone  wires!" 

"Well !"  said  Jane.  "Are  you  going  to  stand  for 
it?' 

The  red-haired  man  threw  up  his  hands.  "The 
village  is  with  him,"  he  declared.  "It's  a  factional 
fight — the  village  against  the  fashionable  summer 
colony  on  the  hill.  I  cannot  telephone  from  the 
village — the  telegraph  operator  is  deaf  when  I  speak 
to  him;  the  village  milkman  and  grocer  sent  boys 


100 LOVE  STORIES 

up  this  morning — look  here."    He  fished  a  scrap  of 
paper  from  his  pocket  and  read: 

I  will  not  supply  the  Valley  Hospital  with  any 
fresh  meats,  canned  oysters  and  sausages,  or  do  any 
plumbing  for  the  hospital  until  the  reinstatement  of 
Dr.  Sheets. 

T.  Cashdollar,  Butcher. 

Jane  took  the  paper  and  read  it  again.  "Humph !" 
she  commented.  "Old  Sheets  wrote  it  himself.  Mr. 
Cashdollar  couldn't  think  'reinstatement,'  let  alone 
spell  it." 

"The  question  is  not  who  wrote  it,  but  what  we 
are  to  do,"  said  the  red-haired  person.  "Shall  I  let 
old  Sheets  come  back*?" 

"If  you  do,"  said  Jane  fiercely,  "I  shall  hate  you 
the  rest  of  my  life." 

And  as  it  was  clear  by  this  time  that  the  red- 
haired  person  could  imagine  nothing  more  horrible, 
it  was  settled  then  and  there  that  he  should  stay. 

"There  are  only  two  wards,"  he  said.  "In  the 
men's  a  man  named  Higgins  is  able  to  be  up  and  is 
keeping  things  straight.  And  in  the  woman's  ward 
Mary  O'Shaughnessy  is  looking  after  them.  The 
furnaces  are  the  worst.  I'd  have  forgiven  almost 
anything  else.  I've  sat  up  all  night  nursing  the 
fires,  but  they  breathed  their  last  at  six  this  morning 


JANE  101 


and  I  guess  there's  nothing  left  but  to  call  the 
coroner." 

Jane  had  achieved  a  tolerable  plate  of  toast  by 
that  time  and  four  eggs.  Also  she  had  a  fine  flush, 
a  combination  of  heat  from  the  gas  stove  and  temper. 

"They  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  she  cried  angrily, 
"leaving  a  lot  of  sick  people !" 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  the  red-headed  person, 
"there  aren't  any  very  sick  ones.  Two  or  three  neu- 
rasthenics like  yourself  and  a  convalescent  typhoid 
and  a  D.  T.  in  a  private  room.  If  it  wasn't  that 
Mary  O'Shaughnessy " 

But  at  the  word  "neurasthenics"  Jane  had  put 
down  the  toaster,  and  by  the  time  the  unconscious 
young  man  had  reached  the  O'Shaughnessy  she  was 
going  out  the  door  with  her  chin  up.  He  called  after 
her,  and  finding  she  did  not  turn  he  followed  her, 
shouting  apologies  at  her  back  until  she  went  into 
her  room.  And  as  hospital  doors  don't  lock  from 
the  inside  she  pushed  the  washstand  against  the 
knob  and  went  to  bed  to  keep  warm. 

He  stood  outside  and  apologised  again,  and  later 
he  brought  a  tray  of  bread  and  butter  and  a  pot  of 
the  tea,  which  had  been  boiling  for  two  hours  by  that 
time,  and  put  it  outside  the  door  on  the  floor.  But 
Jane  refused  to  get  it,  and  finished  her  breakfast 
from  a  jar  of  candied  ginger  that  some  one  had  sent 
her,  and  read  "Lorna  Doone." 


102  LOVE  STORIES 


Now  and  then  a  sound  of  terrific  hammering 
would  follow  the  steampipes  and  Jane  would  smile 
wickedly.  By  noon  she  had  finished  the  ginger 
and  was  wondering  what  the  person  about  whom 
she  and  the  family  had  disagreed  would  think  when 
he  heard  the  way  she  was  being  treated.  And  by  one 
o'clock  she  had  cried  her  eyes  entirely  shut  and 
had  pushed  the  washstand  back  from  the  door. 


II 

Now  a  hospital  full  of  nurses  and  doctors  with  a 
bell  to  summon  food  and  attention  is  one  thing. 
A  hospital  without  nurses  and  doctors,  and  with 
only  one  person  to  do  everything,  and  that  person 
mostly  in  the  cellar,  is  quite  another.  Jane  was 
very  sad  and  lonely,  and  to  add  to  her  troubles  the 
delirium-tremens  case  down  the  hall  began  to  sing 
"Oh  Promise  Me"  in  a  falsetto  voice  and  kept  it 
up  for  hours. 

At  three  Jane  got  up  and  bathed  her  eyes.  She 
also  did  her  hair,  and  thus  fortified  she  started  out 
to  find  the  red-haired  person.  She  intended  to  say 
that  she  was  paying  sixty-five  dollars  a  week  and 
belonged  to  a  leading  family,  and  that  she  didn't 
mean  to  endure  for  a  moment  the  treatment  she  was 
getting,  and  being  called  a  neurasthenic  and  made 
to  cook  for  the  other  patients. 


JANE  103 


She  went  slowly  along  the  hall.  The  convalescent 
typhoid  heard  her  and  called. 

"Hey,  doc !"  he  cried.  "Hey,  doc !  Great  Scott, 
man,  when  do  I  get  some  dinner  *?" 

Jane  quickened  her  steps  and  made  for  the  pantry. 
From  somewhere  beyond,  the  delirium-tremens  case 
was  singing  happily: 

I — love  you  o — own* — ly, 
I  love* — but — you, 

Jane  shivered  a  little.  The  person  in  whom  she 
had  been  interested  and  who  had  caused  her  pre- 
cipitate retirement,  if  not  to  a  nunnery,  to  what 
answered  the  same  purpose,  had  been  very  fond  of 
that  song.  He  used  to  sing  it,  leaning  over  the 
piano  and  looking  into  her  eyes. 

Jane's  nose  led  her  again  to  the  pantry.  There 
was  a  sort  of  soupy  odour  in  the  air,  and  sure  enough 
the  red-haired  person  was  there,  very  immaculate 
in  fresh  ducks,  pouring  boiling  water  into  three  tea- 
cups out  of  a  kettle  and  then  dropping  a  beef  cap- 
sule into  each  cup. 

Now  Jane  had  intended,  as  I  have  said,  to  say 
that  she  was  being  outrageously  treated,  and  be- 
longed to  one  of  the  best  families,  and  so  on.  What 
she  really  said  was  piteously: 

"How  good  it  smells!" 

"Doesn't  it!"  said  the  red-haired  person,  sniffing. 


104 LOVE  STORIES 

"Beef  capsules.  I've  made  thirty  cups  of  it  so  far 
since  one  o'clock — the  more  they  have  the  more  they 
want.  I  say,  be  a  good  girl  and  run  up  to  the 
kitchen  for  some  more  crackers  while  I  carry  food 
to  the  convalescent  typhoid.     He's  murderous!" 

"Where  are  the  crackers'?"  asked  Jane  stiffly,  but 
not  exactly  caring  to  raise  an  issue  until  she  was 
sure  of  getting  something  to  eat. 

"Store  closet  in  the  kitchen,  third  drawer  on  the 
left,"  said  the  red-haired  man,  shaking  some  cayenne 
pepper  into  one  of  the  cups.  "You  might  stop  that 
howling  lunatic  on  your  way  if  you  will." 

"How"?"  asked  Jane,  pausing. 

"Ram  a  towel  down  his  throat,  or — but  don't 
bother.  I'll  dose  him  with  this  beef  tea  and  red 
pepper,  and  he'll  be  too  busy  putting  out  the  fire 
to  want  to  sing." 

"You  wouldn't  be  so  cruel!"  said  Jane,  rather 
drawing  back.  The  red-haired  person  smiled  and 
to  Jane  it  showed  that  he  was  actually  ferocious. 
She  ran  all  the  way  up  for  the  crackers  and  down 
again,  carrying  the  tin  box.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
Jane's  family  would  have  promptly  swooned  had  it 
seen  her. 

When  she  came  down  there  was  a  sort  of  after- 
dinner  peace  reigning.  The  convalescent  typhoid, 
having  filled  up  on  milk  and  beef  soup,  had  floated 
off  to  sleep.   "The  Chocolate  Soldier"  had  given  way 


JANE  105 


to  deep-muttered  imprecations  from  the  singer's 
room.  Jane  made  herself  a  cup  of  bouillon  and 
drank  it  scalding.  She  was  making  the  second  when 
the  red-haired  person  came  back  with  an  empty  cup. 

"I  forgot  to  explain,"  he  said,  "that  beef  tea  and 
red  pepper's  the  treatment  for  our  young  friend  in 
there.  After  a  man  has  been  burning  his  stomach 
daily  with  a  quart  or  so  of  raw  booze " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Jane  coolly.  Booze 
was  not  considered  good  form  on  the  hill — the  word, 
of  course.    There  was  plenty  of  the  substance. 

"Raw  booze,"  repeated  the  red-haired  person. 
"Nothing  short  of  red  pepper  or  dynamite  is  going 
to  act  as  a  substitute.  Why,  I'll  bet  the  inside  of 
that  chap's  stomach  is  of  the  general  sensitiveness 
and  consistency  of  my  shoe." 

"Indeed!"  said  Jane,  coldly  polite.  In  Jane's 
circle  people  did  not  discuss  the  interiors  of  other 
people's  stomachs.  The  red-haired  person  sat  on 
the  table  with  a  cup  of  bouillon  in  one  hand  and  a 
cracker  in  the  other. 

"You  know,"  he  said  genially,  "it's  awfully  bully 
of  you  to  come  out  and  keep  me  company  like  this. 
I  never  put  in  such  a  day.  I've  given  up  fussing 
with  the  furnace  and  got  out  extra  blankets  instead. 
And  I  think  by  night  our  troubles  will  be  over." 
He  held  up  the  cup  and  glanced  at  Jane,  who  was 
looking  entrancingly  pretty.     "To  our  troubles  be- 


106  LOVE  STORIES 

ing  over !"  he  said,  draining  the  cup,  and  then  found 
that  he  had  used  the  red  pepper  again  by  mistake. 
It  took  five  minutes  and  four  cups  of  cold  water  to 
enable  him  to  explain  what  he  meant. 

"By  our  troubles  being  over,"  he  said  finally  when 
he  could  speak,  "I  mean  this:  There's  a  train  from 
town  at  eight  to-night,  and  if  all  goes  well  it  will 
deposit  in  the  village  half  a  dozen  nurses,  a  cook 
or  two,  a  furnace  man — good  Heavens,  I  wonder  if 
I  forgot  a  furnace  man!" 

It  seemed,  as  Jane  discovered,  that  the  telephone 
wires  being  cut,  he  had  sent  Higgins  from  the  men's 
ward  to  the  village  to  send  some  telegrams  for  him. 

"I  couldn't  leave,  you  see,"  he  explained,  "and 
having  some  small  reason  to  believe  that  I  am  per- 
sona non  grata  in  this  vicinity  I  sent  Higgins." 

Jane  had  always  hated  the  name  Higgins.  She 
said  afterward  that  she  felt  uneasy  from  that 
moment.  The  red-haired  person,  who  was  not  bad- 
looking,  being  tall  and  straight  and  having  a  very 
decent  nose,  looked  at  Jane,  and  Jane,  having  been 
shut  away  for  weeks — Jane  preened  a  little  and  was 
glad  she  had  done  her  hair. 

"You  looked  better  the  other  way,"  said  the  red- 
haired  person,  reading  her  mind  in  a  most  uncanny 
manner.  "Why  should  a  girl  with  as  pretty  hair 
as  yours  covej  it  up  with  a  net,  anyhow*?" 


JANE  107 


"You  are  very  disagreeable  and — and  imperti- 
nent," said  Jane,  sliding  off  the  table. 

"It  isn't  disagreeable  to  tell  a  girl  she  has  pretty 
hair,"  the  red-haired  person  protested — "or  imper- 
tinent either." 

Jane  was  gathering  up  the  remnants  of  her  tem- 
per, scattered  by  the  events  of  the  day. 

"You  said  I  was  a  neurasthenic,"  she  accused  him. 
"It — it  isn't  being  a  neurasthenic  to  be  nervous  and 
upset  and  hating  the  very  sight  of  people,  is  it?" 

"Bless  my  soul!"  said  the  red-haired  man. 
"Then  what  is  it?"  Jane  flushed,  but  he  went  on 
tactlessly :  "I  give  you  my  word,  I  think  you  are  the 
most  perfectly" — he  gave  every  appearance  of  being 
about  to  say  "beautiful,"  but  he  evidently  changed 
his  mind — "the  most  perfectly  healthy  person  I  have 
ever  looked  at,"  he  finished. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  just  what  Jane  would  have 
done  under  other  circumstances,  but  just  as  she  was 
getting  her  temper  really  in  hand  and  preparing  to 
launch  something,  shuffling  footsteps  were  heard  in 
the  hall  and  Higgins  stood  in  the  doorway. 

He  was  in  a  sad  state.  One  of  his  eyes  was  en- 
tirely closed,  and  the  corresponding  ear  stood  out 
large  and  bulbous  from  his  head.  Also  he  was 
coated  with  mud,  and  he  was  carefully  nursing  one 
hand  with  the  other. 

He  said  he  had  been  met  at  the  near  end  of  the 


108  LOVE  STORIES 

railroad  bridge  by  the  ex- furnace  man  and  one  of 
the  ex-orderlies  and  sent  back  firmly,  having  in  fact 
been  kicked  back  part  of  the  way.  He'd  been  told 
to  report  at  the  hospital  that  the  tradespeople  had 
instituted  a  boycott,  and  that  either  the  former 
superintendent  went  back  or  the  entire  place  could 
starve  to  death. 

It  was  then  that  Jane  discovered  that  her  much- 
vaunted  temper  was  not  one-two-three  to  that  of 
the  red-haired  person.  He  turned  a  sort  of  blue- 
white,  shoved  Jane  out  of  his  way  as  if  she  had 
been  a  chair,  and  she  heard  him  clatter  down  the 
stairs  and  slam  out  of  the  front  door. 

Jane  went  back  to  her  room  and  looked  down  the 
drive.  He  was  running  toward  the  bridge,  and  the 
sunlight  on  his  red  hair  and  his  flying  legs  made  him 
look  like  a  revengeful  meteor.  Jane  was  weak 
in  the  knees.  She  knelt  on  the  cold  radiator  and 
watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  then  got  trembly  all 
over  and  fell  to  snivelling.  This  was  of  course 
because,  if  anything  happened  to  him,  she  would  be 
left  entirely  alone.  And  anyhow  the  D.T.  case  was 
singing  again  and  had  rather  got  on  her  nerves. 

In  ten  minutes  the  red-haired  person  appeared. 
He  had  a  wretched-looking  creature  by  the  back  of 
the  neck  and  he  alternately  pushed  and  kicked  him 
up   the   drive.      He — the    red-haired   person — was 


JANE  109 


whistling  and  clearly  immensely  pleased  with  him- 
self. 

Jane  put  a  little  powder  on  her  nose  and  waited 
for  him  to  come  and  tell  her  all  about  it.  But  he 
did  not  come  near.  This  was  quite  the  cleverest 
thing  he  could  have  done,  had  he  known  it.  Jane 
was  not  accustomed  to  waiting  in  vain.  He  must 
have  gone  directly  to  the  cellar,  half  pushing  and 
half  kicking  the  luckless  furnace  man,  for  about  four 
o'clock  the  radiator  began  to  get  warm. 

At  five  he  came  and  knocked  at  Jane's  door,  and 
on  being  invited  in  he  sat  down  on  the  bed  and 
looked  at  her. 

"Well,  we've  got  the  furnace  going,"  he  said. 

"Then  that  was  the " 

"Furnace  man?     Yes." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  to  leave  him?"  queried  Jane. 
"Won't  he  run  off?" 

"Got  him  locked  in  a  padded  cell,"  he  said.  "I 
can  take  him  out  to  coal  up.  The  rest  of  the  time 
he  can  sit  and  think  of  his  sins.  The  question  is — 
what  are  we  to  do  next?" 

"I  should  think,"  ventured  Jane,  "that  we'd  bet- 
ter be  thinking  about  supper." 

"The  beef  capsules  are  gone." 

"But  surely  there  must  be  something  else  about — 
potatoes  or  things  like  that?" 

He  brightened  perceptibly.     "Oh,  yes,  carloads 


110 LOVE  STORIES 

of  potatoes,  and  there's  canned  stuff.  Higgins  can 
pare  potatoes,  and  there's  Mary  O'Shaughnessy. 
We  could  have  potatoes  and  canned  tomatoes  and 
eggs." 

"Fine!"  said  Jane  with  her  eyes  gleaming,  al- 
though the  day  before  she  would  have  said  they 
were  her  three  abominations. 

And  with  that  he  called  Higgins  and  Mary 
O'Shaughnessy  and  the  four  of  them  went  to  the 
kitchen. 

Jane  positively  shone.  She  had  never  realised 
before  how  much  she  knew  about  cooking.  They 
built  a  fire  and  got  kettles  boiling  and  everybody 
pared  potatoes,  and  although  in  excess  of  zeal  the 
eggs  were  ready  long  before  everything  else  and 
the  tomatoes  scorched  slightly,  still  they  made  up 
in  enthusiasm  what  they  lacked  in  ability,  and  when 
Higgins  had  carried  the  trays  to  the  lift  and  started 
them  on  their  way,  Jane  and  the  red-haired  person 
shook  hands  on  it  and  then  ate  a  boiled  potato  from 
the  same  plate,  sitting  side  by  side  on  a  table. 

They  were  ravenous.  They  boiled  one  egg  each 
and  ate  it,  and  then  boiled  another  and  another, 
and  when  they  finished  they  found  that  Jane  had 
eaten  four  potatoes,  four  eggs  and  unlimited  bread 
and  butter,  while  the  red-haired  person  had  eaten 
six  saucers  of  stewed  tomatoes  and  was  starting  on 
the  seventh. 


JANE  111 


"You  know,"  he  said  over  the  seventh,  "we've  got 
to  figure  this  thing  out.  The  entire  town  is  solid 
against  us — no  use  trying  to  get  to  a  telephone. 
And  anyhow  they've  got  us  surrounded.  We're  in 
a  state  of  siege." 

Jane  was  beating  up  an  egg  in  milk  for  the  D.  T. 
patient,  the  capsules  being  exhausted,  and  the  red- 
haired  person  was  watching  her  closely.  She  had 
the  two  vertical  lines  between  her  eyes,  but  they 
looked  really  like  lines  of  endeavour  and  not  temper. 

She  stopped  beating  and  looked  up. 

"Couldn't  I  go  to  the  village4?"  she  asked. 

"They  would  stop  you." 

"Then — I  think  I  know  what  we  can  do,"  she 
said,  giving  the  eggnog  a  final  whisk.  "My  people 
have  a  summer  place  on  the  hill.  If  you  could  get 
there  you  could  telephone  to  the  city." 

"Could  I  get  in?' 

"I  have  a  key." 

Jane  did  not  explain  that  the  said  key  had  been 
left  by  her  father,  with  the  terse  hope  that  if  she 
came  to  her  senses  she  could  get  into  the  house  and 
get  her  clothes. 

"Good  girl,"  said  the  red-headed  person  and  pat- 
ted her  on  the  shoulder.  "We'll  euchre  the  old 
skate  yet."  Curiously,  Jane  did  not  resent  either 
the  speech  or  the  pat. 

He  took  the  glass  and  tied  on  a  white  apron.    "If 


112 LOVE  STORIES 

our  friend  doesn't. drink  this,  I  will,"  he  continued. 
"If  he'd  seen  it  in  the  making,  as  I  have,  he'd  be 
crazy  about  it." 

He  opened  the  door  and  stood  listening.  From 
below  floated  up  the  refrain : 

I — love  you  o — own — ly, 
I  love — but — you, 

"Listen  to  that!"  he  said.  "Stomach's  gone,  but 
still  has  a  heart !" 

Higgins  came  up  the  stairs  heavily  and  stopped 
close  by  the  red-haired  person,  whispering  something 
to  him.  There  was  a  second's  pause.  Then  the 
red-haired  person  gave  the  eggnog  to  Higgins  and 
both  disappeared. 

Jane  was  puzzled.  She  rather  thought  the  fur- 
nace man  had  got  out  and  listened  for  a  scuffle,  but 
none  came.  She  did,  however,  hear  the  singing 
cease  below,  and  then  commence  with  renewed 
vigour,  and  she  heard  Higgins  slowly  remounting 
the  stairs.  He  came  in,  with  the  empty  glass  and 
a  sheepish  expression.  Part  of  the  eggnog  was  dis- 
tributed over  his  person. 

"He  wants  his  nurse,  -ma'am,"  said  Higgins. 
"Wouldn't  let  me  near  him.  Flung  a  pillow  at 
me." 

"Where  is  the  doctor?"  demanded  Jane. 


JANE  113 


"Busy,"  replied  Higgins.  "One  of  the  women  is 
sick." 

Jane  was  provoked.  She  had  put  some  labour 
into  the  eggnog.  But  it  shows  the  curious  evolution 
going  on  in  her  that  she  got  out  the  eggs  and  milk 
and  made  another  one  without  protest.  Then  with 
her  head  up  she  carried  it  to  the  door. 

"You  might  clear  things  away,  Higgins,"  she 
said,  and  went  down  the  stairs.  Her  heart  was 
going  rather  fast.  Most  of  the  men  Jane  knew 
drank  more  or  less,  but  this  was  different.  She 
would  have  turned  back  halfway  there  had  it  not 
been  for  Higgins  and  for  owning  herself  conquered. 
That  was  Jane's  real  weakness — she  never  owned 
herself  beaten. 

The  singing  had  subsided  to  a  low  muttering. 
Jane  stopped  outside  the  door  and  took  a  fresh  grip 
on  her  courage.  Then  she  pushed  the  door  open  and 
went  in. 

The  light  was  shaded,  and  at  first  the  tossing 
figure  on  the  bed  was  only  a  misty  outline  of  greys 
and  whites.  She  walked  over,  expecting  a  pillow 
at  any  moment  and  shielding  the  glass  from  attack 
with  her  hand. 

"I  have  brought  you  another  eggnog,"  she  began 
severely,  "and  if  you  spill  it " 

Then  she  looked  down  and  saw  the  face  on  the 
pillow. 


114 LOVE  STORIES 

To  her  everlasting  credit,  Jane  did  not  faint. 
But  in  that  moment,  while  she  stood  staring  down 
at  the  flushed  young  face  with  its  tumbled  dark 
hair  and  deep-cut  lines  of  dissipation,  the  man  who 
had  sung  to  her  over  the  piano,  looking  love  into 
her  eyes,  died  to  her,  and  Jane,  cold  and  steady,  sat 
down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  fed  the  eggnog, 
spoonful  by  spoonful,  to  his  corpse ! 

When  the  blan£-eyed  young  man  on  the  bed  had 
swallowed  it  all  passively,  looking  at  her  with  dull, 
incurious  eyes,  she  went  back  to  her  room  and  closing 
the  door  put  the  washstand  against  it.  She  did 
nothing  theatrical.  She  went  over  to  the  window 
and  stood  looking  out  where  the  trees  along  the 
drive  were  fading  in  the  dusk  from  green  to  grey, 
from  grey  to  black.  And  over  the  transom  came 
again  and  again  monotonously  the  refrain: 

I — love  you  o — own — ly9 
I  love — but — you. 

Jane  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and  buried 
her  wilful  head  in  the  hand-embroidered  pillow, 
and  said  a  little  prayer  because  she  had  found  out 
in  time. 

in 

The  full  realisation  of  their  predicament  came 
with  the  dusk.  The  electric  lights  were  shut  off! 


JANE  115 


Jane,  crawling  into  bed  tearfully  at  half  after  eight, 
turned  the  reading  light  switch  over  her  head,  but 
no  flood  of  rosy  radiance  poured  down  on  the  hand- 
embroidered  pillow  with  the  pink  bow. 

Jane  sat  up  and  stared  round  her.  Already  the 
outline  of  her  dresser  was  faint  and  shadowy.  In 
half  an  hour  black  night  would  settle  down  and  she 
had  not  even  a  candle  or  a  box  of  matches.  She 
crawled  out,  panicky,  and  began  in  the  darkness 
to  don  her  kimono  and  slippers.  As  she  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  into  the  hall  the  convalescent 
typhoid  heard  her  and  set  up  his  usual  cry. 

"Hey,"  he  called,  "whoever  that  is  come  in  and 
fix  the  lights.  They're  broken.  And  I  want  some 
bread  and  milk.  I  can't  sleep  on  an  empty 
stomach !" 

Jane  padded  on  past  the  room  where  love  lay 
cold  and  dead,  down  the  corridor  with  its  alarming 
echoes.  The  house  seemed  very  quiet.  At  a  cor- 
ner unexpectedly  she  collided  with  some  one  going 
hastily.  The  result  was  a  crash  and  a  deluge  of 
hot  water.  Jane  got  a  drop  on  her  bare  ankle,  and 
as  soon  as  she  could  breathe  she  screamed. 

"Why  don't  you  look  where  you're  going S"  de- 
manded the  red-haired  person  angrily.  "I've  been 
an  hour  boiling  that  water,  and  now  it  has  to  be 
done  over  again!" 


116  LOVE  STORIES 

"It  would  do  a  lot  of  good  to  look!"  retorted 
Jane.     "But  if  you  wish  I'll  carry  a  bell !" 

"The  thing  for  you  to  do,"  said  the  red-haired 
person  severely,  "is  to  go  back  to  bed  like  a  good 
girl  and  stay  there  until  morning.  The  light  is  cut 
off." 

"Really !"  said  Jane.  "I  thought  it  had  just  gone 
out  for  a  walk.  I  daresay  I  may  have  a  box  of 
matches  at  least?" 

He  fumbled  in  his  pockets  without  success. 

"Not  a  match,  of  course!"  he  said  disgustedly. 
"Was  any  one  ever  in  such  an  infernal  mess*?  Can't 
you  get  back  to  your  room  without  matches'?" 

"I  shan't  go  back  at  all  unless  I  have  some  sort 
of  light,"  maintained  Jane.  "I'm — horribly  fright- 
ened!" 

The  break  in  her  voice  caught  his  attention  and 
he  put  his  hand  out  gently  and  took  her  arm. 

"Now  listen,"  he  said.  "You've  been  brave  and 
fine  all  day,  and  don't  stop  it  now.     I — I've  got  all 

I  can  manage.     Mary  O'Shaughnessy  is "     He 

stopped.  "I'm  going  to  be  very  busy,"  he  said 
with  half  a  groan.  "I  surely  do  wish  you  were 
forty  for  the  next  few  hours.  But  you'll  go  back 
and  stay  in  your  room,  won't  you?" 

He  patted  her  arm,  which  Jane  particularly  hated 
generally.  But  Jane  had  altered  considerably  since 
morning. 


JANE  117 


"Then  you  cannot  go  to  the  telephone?" 

"Not  to-night." 

"And  Higgins?" 

"Higgins  has  gone,"  he  said.  "He  slipped  off  an 
hour  ago.  We'll  have  to  manage  to-night  some- 
how.    Now  will  you  be  a  good  child?" 

"I'll  go  back,"  she  promised  meekly.  "I'm  sorry 
I'm  not  forty." 

He  turned  her  round  and  started  her  in  the  right 
direction  with  a  little  push.  But  she  had  gone  only 
a  step  or  two  when  she  heard  him  coming  after  her 
quickly. 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Here,"  quavered  Jane,  not  quite  sure  of  him  or 
of  herself  perhaps. 

But  when  he  stopped  beside  her  he  didn't  try  to 
touch  her  arm  again.     He  only  said: 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  forty  for  anything  in  the 
world.  I  want  you  to  be  just  as  you  are,  very  beau- 
tiful and  young." 

Then,  as  if  he  was  afraid  he  would  say  too  much, 
he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  a  moment  after  he  kicked 
against  the  fallen  pitcher  in  the  darkness  and  awoke 
a  thousand  echoes.  As  for  Jane,  she  put  her  fingers 
to  her  ears  and  ran  to  her  room,  where  she  slammed 
the  door  and  crawled  into  bed  with  burning  cheeks. 

Jane  was  never  sure  whether  it  was  five  minutes 


118 LOVE  STORIES 

later  or  five  seconds  when  somebody  in  the  room 
spoke — from  a  chair  by  the  window. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  a  mild  voice — "do  you  think 
you  could  find  me  some  bread  and  butter*?  Or  a 
glass  of  milk?" 

Jane  sat  up  in  bed  suddenly.  She  knew  at  once 
that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  but  she  was  quite  dig- 
nified about  it.  She  looked  over  at  the  chair,  and 
the  convalescent  typhoid  was  sitting  in  it,  wrapped 
in  a  blanket  and  looking  wan  and  ghostly  in  the 
dusk. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  in  the  wrong  room,"  Jane  said 
very  stiffly,  trying  to  get  out  of  the  bed  with  dignity, 
which  is  difficult.  "The  hall  is  dark  and  all  the 
doors  look  so  alike " 

She  made  for  the  door  at  that  and  got  out  into 
the  hall  with  her  heart  going  a  thousand  a  minute 
again. 

"You've  forgotten  your  slippers,"  called  the  con- 
valescent typhoid  after  her.  But  nothing  would 
have  taken  Jane  back. 

The  convalescent  typhoid  took  the  slippers  home 
later  and  locked  them  away  in  an  inner  drawer, 
where  he  kept  one  or  two  things  like  faded  roses,  and 
old  gloves,  and  a  silk  necktie  that  a  girl  had  made 
him  at  college — things  that  are  all  the  secrets  a  man 
keeps  from  his  wife  and  that  belong  in  that  small 


JANE  119 


corner  of  his  heart  which  also  he  keeps  from  his 
wife.     But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  Jane. 

Jane  went  back  to  her  own  bed  thoroughly  de- 
moralised. And  sleep  being  pretty  well  banished 
by  that  time,  she  sat  up  in  bed  and  thought  things 
over.  Before  this  she  had  not  thought  much,  only 
raged  and  sulked  alternately.  But  now  she  thought. 
She  thought  about  the  man  in  the  room  down  the  hall 
with  the  lines  of  dissipation  on  his  face.  And  she 
thought  a  great  deal  about  what  a  silly  she  had  been, 
and  that  it  was  not  too  late  yet,  she  being  not  forty 
and  "beautiful."  It  must  be  confessed  that  she 
thought  a  great  deal  about  that.  Also  she  reflected 
that  what  she  deserved  was  to  marry  some  person 
with  even  a  worse  temper  than  hers,  who  would 
bully  her  at  times  and  generally  keep  her  straight. 
And  from  that,  of  course,  it  was  only  a  step  to  the 
fact  that  red-haired  people  are  proverbially  bad- 
tempered  ! 

She  thought,  too,  about  Mary  O'Shaughnessy 
without  another  woman  near,  and  not  even  a  light, 
except  perhaps  a  candle.  Things  were  always  so 
much  worse  in  the  darkness.  And  perhaps  she 
might  be  going  to  be  very  ill  and  ought  to  have  an- 
other doctor ! 

Jane  seemed  to  have  been  reflecting  for  a  long 
time,  when  the  church  clock  far  down  in  the  village 
struck  nine.     And  with  the  chiming  of  the  clock 


120  LOVE  STORIES 

was  born,  full  grown,  an  idea  which  before  it  was 
sixty  seconds  of  age  was  a  determination. 

In  pursuance  of  the  idea  Jane  once  more  crawled 
out  of  bed  and  began  to  dress;  she  put  on  heavy 
shoes  and  a  short  skirt,  a  coat,  and  a  motor  veil  over 
her  hair.  The  indignation  at  the  defection  of  the 
hospital  staff,  held  in  subjection  during  the  day  by 
the  necessity  ^r  doing  something,  now  rose  and 
lent  speed  and  fury  to  her  movements.  In  an  in- 
credibly short  time  Jane  was  feeling  her  way  along 
the  hall  and  down  the  staircase,  now  a  well  of  un- 
fathomable blackness  and  incredible  rustlings  and 
creakings. 

The  front  doors  were  unlocked.  Outside  there 
was  faint  starlight,  the  chirp  of  a  sleepy  bird,  and 
far  off  across  the  valley  the  gasping  and  wheezing 
of  a  freight  climbing  the  heavy  grade  to  the  village. 

Jane  paused  at  the  drive  and  took  a  breath.  Then 
at  her  best  gymnasium  pace,  arms  close  to  sides,  head 
up,  feet  well  planted,  she  started  to  run.  At  the 
sundial  she  left  the  drive  and  took  to  the  lawn 
gleaming  with  the  frost  of  late  October.  She 
stopped  running  then  and  began  to  pick  her  way 
more  cautiously.  Even  at  that  she  collided  heavily 
with  a  wire  fence  marking  the  boundary,  and  sat  on 
the  ground  for  some  time  after,  whimpering  over 
the  outrage  and  feeling  her  nose.     It  was  distinctly 


JANE  121 


scratched  and  swollen.  No  one  would  think  her 
beautiful  with  a  nose  like  that! 

She  had  not  expected  the  wire  fence.  It  was  im- 
possible to  climb  and  more  difficult  to  get  under. 
However,  she  found  one  place  where  the  ground 
dipped,  and  wormed  her  way  under  the  fence  in 
most  undignified  fashion.  It  is  perfectly  certain 
that  had  Jane's  family  seen  her  then  and  been  told 
that  she  was  doing  this  remarkable  thing  for  a 
woman  she  had  never  seen  before  that  day,  named 
Mary  O'Shaughnessy,  and  also  for  a  certain  red- 
haired  person  of  whom  it  had  never  heard,  it  would 
have  considered  Jane  quite  irrational.  But  it  is  en- 
tirely probable  that  Jane  became  really  rational  that 
night  for  the  first  time  in  her  spoiled  young  life. 

Jane  never  told  the  details  of  that  excursion. 
Those  that  came  out  in  the  paper  were  only  guess- 
work, of  course,  but  it  is  quite  true  that  a  reporter 
found  scraps  of  her  motor  veil  on  three  wire  fences, 
and  there  seems  to  be  no  reason  to  doubt,  also,  that 
two  false  curls  were  discovered  a  week  later  in  a 
cow  pasture  on  her  own  estate.  But  as  Jane  never 
wore  curls  afterward  anyhow 

Well,  Jane  got  to  her  own  house  about  eleven 
and  crept  in  like  a  thief  to  the  telephone.  There 
were  more  rustlings  and  creakings  and  rumblings  in 
the  empty  house  than  she  had  ever  imagined,  and 
she  went  backward  through  the  hall  for  fear  of 


122 LOVE  STORIES 

something  coming  after  her.  But,  which  is  to  the 
point,  she  got  to  the  telephone  and  called  up  her 
father  in  the  city. 

The  first  message  that  astonished  gentleman  got 
was  that  a  red-haired  person  at  the  hospital  was 
very  ill,  having  run  into  a  wire  fence  and  bruised 
a  nose,  and  that  he  was  to  bring  out  at  once  from 
town  two  doctors,  six  nurses,  a  cook  and  a  furnace 
man! 

After  a  time,  however,  as  Jane  grew  calmer,  he 
got  it  straightened  out,  and  said  a  number  of  things 
over  the  telephone  anent  the  deserting  staff  that  are 
quite  forbidden  by  the  rules  both  of  the  club  and 
of  the  telephone  company.  He  gave  Jane  full  in- 
structions about  sending  to  the  village  and  having 
somebody  come  up  and  stay  with  her,  and  about 
taking  a  hot  footbath  and  going  to  bed  between 
blankets,  and  when  Jane  replied  meekly  to  every- 
thing "Yes,  father,"  and  "All  right,  father,"  he  was 
so  stunned  by  her  mildness  that  he  was  certain  she 
must  be  really  ill. 

Not  that  Jane  had  any  idea  of  doing  all  these 
things.  She  hung  up  the  telephone  and  gathered 
all  the  candles  from  all  the  candlesticks  on  the  lower 
floor,  and  started  back  for  the  hospital.  The  moon 
had  come  up  and  she  had  no  more  trouble  with  fenc- 
ing, but  she  was  desperately  tired.  She  climbed  the 
drive  slowly,  coming  to  frequent  pauses.     The  hos- 


JANE  123 


pital,  long  and  low  and  sleeping,  lay  before  her, 
and  in  one  upper  window  there  was  a  small  yellow 
light. 

Jane  climbed  the  steps  and  sat  down  on  the  top 
one.  She  felt  very  tired  and  sad  and  dejected,  and 
she  sat  down  on  the  upper  step  to  think  of  how  use- 
less she  was,  and  how  much  a  man  must  know  to 
be  a  doctor,  and  that  perhaps  she  would  take  up 
nursing  in  earnest  and  amount  to  something, 
and 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
the  red-haired  person,  coming  down  belatedly  to 
close  the  front  doors,  saw  a  shapeless  heap  on  the 
porch  surrounded  by  a  radius  of  white-wax  candles, 
and  going  up  shoved  at  it  with  his  foot.  Whereat 
the  heap  moved  slightly  and  muttered  "Lemme 
shleep." 

The  red-haired  person  said  "Good  Heavens !"  and 
bending  down  held  a  lighted  match  to  the  sleeper's 
face  and  stared,  petrified.  Jane  opened  her  eyes, 
sat  up  and  put  her  hand  over  her  mutilated  nose 
with  one  gesture. 

"You!"  said  the  red-haired  person.  And  then 
mercifully  the  match  went  out. 

"Don't  light  another,"  said  Jane.  "I'm  an 
alarming  sight.  Would — would  you  mind  feeling 
if  my  nose  is  broken?" 


124  LOVE  STORIES 

He  didn't  move  to  examine  it.  He  just  kept  on 
kneeling  and  staring. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  he  demanded. 

"Over  to  telephone,"  said  Jane,  and  yawned. 
"They're  bringing  everybody  in  automobiles — doc- 
tors, nurses,  furnace  man — oh,  dear  me,  I  hope  I 
mentioned  a  cook!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  the  red-haired  person 
wonderingly,  "that  you  went  by  yourself  across  the 
fields  and  telephoned  to  get  me  out  of  this  mess?" 

"Not  at  all,"  Jane  corrected  him  coolly.  "I'm  in 
the  mess  myself." 

"You'll  be  ill  again." 

"I  never  was  ill,"  said  Jane.  "I  was  here  for  a 
mean  disposition." 

Jane  sat  in  the  moonlight  with  her  hands  in  her 
lap  and  looked  at  him  calmly.  The  red-haired  per- 
son reached  over  and  took  both  her  hands. 

"You're  a  heroine,"  he  said,  and  bending  down 
he  kissed  first  one  and  then  the  other.  "Isn't  it  bad 
enough  that  you  are  beautiful  without  your  also 
being  brave?" 

Jane  eyed  him,  but  he  was  in  deadly  earnest.  In 
the  moonlight  his  hair  was  really  not  red  at  all,  and 
he  looked  pale  and  very,  very  tired.  Something  in- 
side of  Jane  gave  a  curious  thrill  that  was  half  pain. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  dying  of  her  temper,  per- 
haps  


JANE  125 


"Am  I  still  beautiful  with  this  nose?'  she  asked. 

"You  are  everything  that  a  woman  should  be/' 
he  said,  and  dropping  her  hands  he  got  up.  He 
stood  there  in  the  moonlight,  straight  and  young  and 
crowned  with  despair,  and  Jane  looked  up  from 
under  her  long  lashes. 

"Then  why  don't  you  stay  where  you  were?"  she 
asked. 

At  that  he  reached  down  and  took  her  hands  again 
and  pulled  her  to  her  feet.     He  was  very  strong. 

"Because  if  I  do  I'll  never  leave  you  again,"  he 
said.     "And  I  must  go." 

He  dropped  her  hands,  or  tried  to,  but  Jane 
wasn't  ready  to  be  dropped. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "I've  told  you  I'm  a  sulky, 
bad-tempered " 

But  at  that  he  laughed  suddenly,  triumphantly, 
and  put  both  his  arms  round  her  and  held  her  close. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  are  bad-tem- 
pered, so  am  I,  only  I  think  I'm  worse.  It's  a  shame 
to  spoil  two  houses  with  us,  isn't  it?" 

To  her  eternal  shame  be  it  told,  Jane  never  strug- 
gled.    She  simply  held  up  her  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

Thar,  is  really  all  the  story.  Jane's  father  came 
with  three  automobiles  that  morning  at  dawn,  bring- 
ing with  him  all  that  goes  to  make  up  a  hospital, 
from  a  pharmacy  clerk  to  absorbent  cotton,  and  hav- 


126 LOVE  STORIES 

ing  left  the  new  supplies  in  the  office  he  stamped 
upstairs  to  Jane's  room  and  flung  open  the  door. 

He  expected  to  find  Jane  in  hysterics  and  the 
pink  silk  kimono. 

What  he  really  saw  was  this:  A  coal  fire  was 
lighted  in  Jane's  grate,  and  in  a  low  chair  before 
it,  with  her  nose  swollen  level  with  her  forehead, 
sat  Jane,  holding  on  her  lap  Mary  O'Shaughnessy's 
baby,  very  new  and  magenta-coloured  and  yelling 
like  a  trooper.  Kneeling  beside  the  chair  was  a 
tall,  red-headed  person  holding  a  bottle  of  olive  oil. 

"Now,  sweetest,"  the  red-haired  person  was  say- 
ing, "turn  him  on  his  tummy  and  we'll  rub  his  back. 
Gee,  isn't  that  a  fat  back!" 

And  as  Jane's  father  stared  and  Jane  anxiously 
turned  the  baby,  the  red-haired  person  leaned  over 
and  kissed  the  back  of  Jane's  neck. 

"Jane!"  he  whispered. 

"Jane ! !"  said  her  father. 


IN  THE  PAVILION 


IN  THE  PAVILION 


NOW,  had  Billy  Grant  really  died  there  would 
be  no  story.  The  story  is  to  relate  how  he 
nearly  died;  and  how,  approaching  that  bourne  to 
which  no  traveller  may  take  with  him  anything  but 
his  sins — and  this  with  Billy  Grant  meant  consider- 
able luggage — he  cast  about  for  some  way  to  prevent 
the  Lindley  Grants  from  getting  possession  of  his 
worldly  goods. 

Probably  it  would  never  have  happened  at  all  had 
not  young  Grant,  having  hit  on  a  scheme,  clung  to 
it  with  a  tenacity  that  might  better  have  been  de- 
voted to  saving  his  soul,  and  had  he  not  said  to 
the  Nurse,  who  was  at  that  moment  shaking  a  ther- 
mometer: "Come  on — be  a  sport!  It's  only  a  mat- 
ter of  hours."  Not  that  he  said  it  aloud — he  whis- 
pered it,  and  fought  for  the  breath  to  do  even  that. 
The  Nurse,  having  shaken  down  the  thermometer, 
walked  to  the  table  and  recorded  a  temperature  of 
one  hundred  and  six  degrees  through  a  most  unpro- 
fessional mist  of  tears.  Then  in  the  symptom  col- 
umn she  wrote:  "Delirious." 

But  Billy  Grant  was  not  delirious.  A  fever  of  a 
129 


130  LOVE  STORIES 

hundred  and  four  or  thereabout  may  fuse  one's  mind 
in  a  sort  of  fiery  crucible,  but  when  it  gets  to  a 
hundred  and  six  all  the  foreign  thoughts,  like  seeing 
green  monkeys  on  the  footboard  and  wondering  why 
the  doctor  is  walking  on  his  hands — all  these  things 
melt  away,  and  one  sees  one's  past,  as  when  drown- 
ing, and  remembers  to  hate  one's  relations,  and  is 
curious  about  what  is  coming  when  one  goes  over. 

So  Billy  Grant  lay  on  his  bed  in  the  contagious 
pavilion  of  the  hospital,  and  remembered  to  hate 
the  Lindley  Grants  and  to  try  to  devise  a  way  to 
keep  them  out  of  his  property.  And,  having  studied 
law,  he  knew  no  will  that  he  might  make  now  would 
hold  against  the  Lindley  Grants  for  a  minute,  unless 
ke  survived  its  making  some  thirty  days.  The  Staff 
Doctor  had  given  him  about  thirty  hours  or  less. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  given  up  in  despair  and 
been  forced  to  rest  content  with  a  threat  to  haunt 
the  Lindley  Grants  and  otherwise  mar  the  enjoy- 
ment of  their  good  fortune,  had  not  the  Nurse  at 
that  moment  put  the  thermometer  under  his  arm. 

Now,  as  every  one  knows,  an  axillary  tempera- 
ture takes  five  minutes,  during  which  it  is  customary 
for  a  nurse  to  kneel  beside  the  bed,  or  even  to  sit 
very  lightly  on  the  edge,  holding  the  patient's  arm 
close  to  his  side  and  counting  his  respirations  while 
pretending  to  be  thinking  of  something  else.  It 
was  during  these  five  minutes  that  the  idea  came 


IN  THE  PAVILION 131 

into  Billy  Grant's  mind  and,  having  come,  remained. 
The  Nurse  got  up,  rustling  starchily,  and  Billy 
caught  her  eye. 

"Every  engine,"  he  said  with  difficulty,  "labours 
— in  a  low — gear.     No  wonder  I'm — heated  up!" 

The  Nurse,  who  was  young,  put  her  hand  on  his 
forehead. 

"Try  to  sleep,"  she  said. 

"Time  for— that— later,"  said  Billy  Grant.  "I'll 
— I'll  be  a — long  time — dead.  I — I  wonder  whether 
you'd — do  me  a — favour." 

"I'll  do  anything  in  the  world  you  want." 

She  tried  to  smile  down  at  him,  but  only  suc- 
ceeded in  making  her  chin  quiver,  which  would  never 
do — being  unprofessional  and  likely  to  get  to  the 
head  nurse;  so,  being  obliged  to  do  something,  she 
took  his  pulse  by  the  throbbing  in  his  neck. 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six " 

"Then — marry  me,"  gasped  Billy  Grant.  "Only 
for  an — hour  or — two,  you  know.  You — promised. 
Come  on — be  a  sport !" 

It  was  then  that  the  Nurse  walked  to  the  table 
and  recorded  "Delirious"  in  the  symptom  column. 
And,  though  she  was  a  Smith  College  girl  and  had 
taken  a  something  or  other  in  mathematics,  she 
spelled  it  just  then  with  two  r's. 

Billy  Grant  was  not  in  love  with  the  Nurse.  She 
was  a  part  of  his  illness,  like  the  narrow  brass  bed 


132 LOVE  STORIES 

and  the  yellow  painted  walls,  and  the  thermometer 
under  his  arm,  and  the  medicines.  There  were  even 
times — when  his  fever  subsided  for  a  degree  or  two, 
after  a  cold  sponge,  and  the  muddled  condition  of 
mind  returned — when  she  seemed  to  have  more 
heads  than  even  a  nurse  requires.  So  sentiment  did 
not  enter  into  the  matter  at  all;  it  was  revenge. 

"You — promised,"  he  said  again;  but  the  Nurse 
only  smiled  indulgently  and  rearranged  the  bottles 
on  the  stand  in  neat  rows. 

Jenks,  the  orderly,  carried  her  supper  to  the  iso- 
lation pavilion  at  six  o'clock — cold  ham,  potato 
salad,  egg  custard  and  tea.  Also,  he  brought  her 
an  evening  paper.  But  the  Nurse  was  not  hungry. 
She  went  into  the  bathroom,  washed  her  eyes  with 
cold  water,  put  on  a  clean  collar,  against  the  im- 
pending visit  of  the  Staff  Doctor,  and  then  stood  at 
the  window,  looking  across  at  the  hospital  and  feel- 
ing very  lonely  and  responsible.  It  was  not  a  great 
hospital,  but  it  loomed  large  and  terrible  that  night. 
The  ambulance  came  out  into  the  courtyard,  and 
an  interne,  in  white  ducks,  came  out  to  it,  carrying 
a  surgical  bag.  He  looked  over  at  her  and  waved 
his  hand.  "Big  railroad  wreck!"  he  called  cheer- 
fully. "Got  'em  coming  in  bunches."  He  crawled 
into  the  ambulance,  where  the  driver,  trained  to 
many  internes,  gave  him  time  to  light  a  cigarette; 
then  out  into  the  dusk,  with  the  gong  beating  madly. 


IN  THE  PAVILION  133 

Billy  Grant,  who  had  lapsed  into  a  doze,  opened 
his  eyes. 

"What — about  it*?"  he  asked.  "You're  not — 
married  already — are  you  9" 

"Please  try  to  rest.  Perhaps  if  I  get  your  beef 
juice " 

"Oh,  damn — the  beef  juice!"  whispered  Billy 
Grant,  and  shut  his  eyes  again — but  not  to  sleep. 
He  was  planning  how  to  get  his  way,  and  finally, 
out  of  a  curious  and  fantastic  medley  of  thoughts, 
he  evolved  something.  The  doctor,  of  course! 
These  women  had  to  do  what  the  doctor  ordered. 
He  would  see  the  doctor ! — upon  which,  with  a  pre- 
cision quite  amazing,  all  the  green  monkeys  on  the 
footboard  of  the  bed  put  their  thumbs  to  their  noses 
at  him. 

The  situation  was  unusual;  for  here  was  young 
Grant,  far  enough  from  any  one  who  knew  he  was 
one  of  the  Van  Kleek  Grants — and,  as  such,  entitled 
to  all  the  nurses  and  doctors  that  money  could  pro- 
cure— shut  away  in  the  isolation  pavilion  of  a  hos- 
pital, and  not  even  putting  up  a  good  fight !  Even 
the  Nurse  felt  this,  and  when  the  Staff  Man  came 
across  the  courtyard  that  night  she  met  him  on  the 
doorstep  and  told  him. 

"He  doesn't  care  whether  he  gets  well  or  not," 
she  said  dispiritedly.     "All  he  seems  to  think  about 


134 LOVE  STORIES 

is  to  die  and  to  leave  everything  he  owns  so  his  rela- 
tives won't  get  it.     It's  horrible!" 

The  Staff  Man,  who  had  finished  up  a  hard  day 
with  a  hospital  supper  of  steak  and  fried  potatoes, 
sat  down  on  the  doorstep  and  fished  out  a  digestive 
tablet  from  his  surgical  bag. 

"It's  pretty  sad,  little  girl,"  he  said,  over  the  pill. 
He  had  known  the  Nurse  for  some  time,  having,  in 
fact,  brought  her — according  to  report  at  the  time — 
in  a  predecessor  of  the  very  bag  at  his  feet,  and  he 
had  the  fatherly  manner  that  belongs  by  right  to  the 
man  who  has  first  thumped  one  between  the  shoulder- 
blades  to  make  one  breathe,  and  who  had  remarked 
on  this  occasion  to  some  one  beyond  the  door:  "A 
girl,  and  fat  as  butter !" 

The  Nurse  tiptoed  in  and  found  Billy  Grant  ap- 
parently asleep.  Actually  he  had  only  closed  his 
eyes,  hoping  to  lure  one  of  the  monkeys  within 
clutching  distance.  So  the  Nurse  came  out  again, 
with  the  symptom  record. 

"Delirious,  with  two  r's,"  said  the  Staff  Doctor, 
glancing  over  his  spectacles.  "He  must  have  been 
pretty  bad." 

"Not  wild ;  he — he  wanted  me  to  marry  him !" 

She  smiled,  showing  a  most  alluring  dimple  in 
one  cheek. 

"I  see!  Well,  that's  not  necessarily  delirium. 
H'm — pulse,  respiration — look  at  that  temperature! 


IN  THE  PAVILION 135 

Yes,  it's  pretty  sad — away  from  home,  too,  poor 
lad!" 

"You Isn't  there  any  hope,  doctor*?" 

"None  at  all — at  least,  I've  never  had  'em  get 
well" 

Now  the  Nurse  should,  by  all  the  ethics  of  hos- 
pital practice,  have  walked  behind  the  Staff  Doctor, 
listening  reverentially  to  what  he  said,  hot  speaking 
until  she  was  spoken  to,  and  carrying  in  one  hand 
an  order  blank  on  which  said  august  personage  would 
presently  inscribe  certain  cabalistic  characters,  to  be 
deciphered  later  by  the  pharmacy  clerk  with  a  strong 
light  and  much  blasphemy,  and  in  the  other  hand  a 
clean  towel.  The  clean  towel  does  not  enter  into 
the  story,  but  for  the  curious  be  it  said  that  were  said 
personage  to  desire  to  listen  to  the  patient's  heart, 
the  towel  would  be  unfolded  and  spread,  without 
creases,  over  the  patient's  chest — which  reminds  me 
of  the  Irishman  and  the  weary  practitioner;  but 
every  one  knows  that  story. 

Now  that  is  what  the  Nurse  should  have  done; 
instead  of  which,  in  the  darkened  passageway,  being 
very  tired  and  exhausted  and  under  a  hideous  strain, 
she  suddenly  slipped  her  arm  through  the  Staff  Doc- 
tor's and,  putting  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  began 
to  cry  softly. 

"What's  this?"  demanded  the  Staff  Doctor 
sternly  and,  putting  his  arm  round  her:  "Don't  you 


136  LOVE  STORIES 

know  that  Junior  Nurses  are  not  supposed  to  weep 
over  the  Staff  ?"  And,  getting  no  answer  but  a 
choke:  "We  can't  have  you  used  up  like  this;  I'll 
make  them  relieve  you.     When  did  you  sleep?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  relieved,"  said  the  Nurse, 
very  muffled.  "No-nobody  else  would  know 
wh-what  he  wanted.  I  just — I  just  can't  bear  to 
see  him — to  see  him " 

The  Staff  Doctor  picked  up  the  clean  towel,  which 
belonged  on  the  Nurse's  left  arm,  and  dried  her  eyes 
for  her;  then  he  sighed. 

"None  of  us  likes  to  see  it,  girl,"  he  said.  "I'm 
an  old  man,  and  I've  never  got  used  to  it.  What  do 
they  send  you  to  eat?" 

"The  food's  all  right,"  she  said  rather  drearily. 
"I'm  not  hungry — that's  all.  How  long  do  you 
think " 

The  Staff  Doctor,  who  was  putting  an  antiseptic 
gauze  cap  over  his  white  hair,  ran  a  safety  pin  into 
his  scalp  at  that  moment  and  did  not  reply  at  once. 
Then,  "Perhaps — until  morning,"  he  said. 

He  held  out  his  arms  for  the  long,  white,  sterilised 
coat,  and  a  moment  later,  with  his  face  clean-washed 
of  emotion,  and  looking  like  a  benevolent  Turk,  he 
entered  the  sick  room.  The  Nurse  was  just  behind 
him,  with  an  order  book  in  one  hand  and  a  clean 
towel  over  her  arm. 


IN  THE  PAVILION  137 

Billy  Grant,  from  his  bed,  gave  the  turban  a  high 
sign  of  greeting. 

"Allah — is — great!"  he  gasped  cheerfully. 
"Well,  doctor — I  guess  it's  all — over  but — the 
shouting." 

II 

Some  time  after  midnight  Billy  Grant  roused  out 
of  a  stupor.  He  was  quite  rational;  in  fact,  he 
thought  he  would  get  out  of  bed.  But  his  feet 
would  not  move.  This  was  absurd!  One's  feet 
must  move  if  one  wills  them  to!  However,  he 
could  not  stir  either  of  them.  Otherwise  he  was 
beautifully  comfortable. 

Faint  as  was  the  stir  he  made  the  Nurse  heard 
him.     She  was  sitting  in  the  dark  by  the  window. 

"Water?"  she  asked  softly,  coming  to  him. 

"Please."  His  voice  was  stronger  than  it  had 
been. 

Some  of  the  water  went  down  his  neck,  but  it  did 
not  matter.  Nothing  mattered  except  the  Lindley 
Grants.  The  Nurse  took  his  temperature  and  went 
out  into  the  hall  to  read  the  thermometer,  so  he 
might  not  watch  her  face.  Then,  having  recorded 
it  under  the  nightlight,  she  came  back  into  the  room. 

"Why  don't  you  put  on  something  comfortable?" 
demanded   Billy  Grant  querulously.     He   was   so 


138 LOVE  STORIES 

comfortable  himself  and  she  was  so  stiffly  starched, 
so  relentless  of  collar  and  cap. 

"I  am  comfortable." 

"Where's  that  wrapper  thing  you've  been  wearing 
at  night?"  The  Nurse  rather  flushed  at  this. 
"Why  don't  you  lie  down  on  the  cot  and  take  a 
nap?     I  don't  need  anything." 

"Not — not  to-night." 

He  understood,  of  course,  but  he  refused  to  be 
depressed.  He  was  too  comfortable.  He  was 
breathing  easily,  and  his  voice,  though  weak,  was 
clear. 

"Would  you  mind  sitting  beside  me?  Or  are 
you  tired?  But  of  course  you  are.  Perhaps  in  a 
night  or  so  you'll  be  over  there  again,  sleeping  in  a 
nice  white  gown  in  a  nice  fresh  bed,  with  no  queru- 
lous devil " 

"Please!" 

"You'll  have  to  be  sterilised  or  f ormaldehyded  ?" 

"Yes."     This  very  low. 

"Will  you  put  your  hand  over  mine?  Thanks. 
It's — company,  you  know."  He  was  apologetic; 
under  her  hand  his  own  burned  fire.  "I — I  spoke 
to  the  Staff  about  that  while  you  were  out  of  the 
room." 

"About  what?" 

"About  your  marrying  me." 

"What  did  he  say?"     She  humoured  htm. 


IN  THE  PAVILION  139 

"He  said  he  was  willing  if  you  were.  You're  not 
going  to  move — are  you?" 

"No.     But  you  must  not  talk." 

"It's  like  this.  I've  got  a  little  property — not 
much;  a  little."  He  was  nervously  eager  about 
this.     If  she  knew  it  amounted  to  anything  she 

would  refuse,  and  the  Lindley  Grants "And 

when  I — you  know I  want  to  leave  it  where 

it  will  do  some  good.  That  little  brother  of  yours 
— it  would  send  him  through  college,  or  help  to." 

Once,  weeks  ago,  before  he  became  so  ill,  she  had 
told  him  of  the  brother.  This  in  itself  was  wrong 
and  against  the  ethics  of  the  profession.  One  does 
not  speak  of  oneself  or  one's  family. 

"If  you  won't  try  to  sleep,  shall  I  read  to  you?" 

"Read  what?"  ' 

"I  thought — the  Bible,  if  you  wouldn't  mind." 

"Certainly,"  he  agreed.  "I  suppose  that's  the 
conventional  thing;  and  if  it  makes  you  feel  any 

better Will  you  think  over  what  I've  been 

saying?" 

"I'll  think  about  it,"  she  said,  soothing  him  like 
a  fretful  child,  and  brought  her  Bible. 

The  clock  on  the  near-by  town  hall  struck  two  as 
she  drew  up  her  chair  beside  him  and  commenced 
to  read  by  the  shaded  light.  Across  the  courtyard 
the  windows  were  dim  yellowish  rectangles,  with 
here  and  there  one  brighter  than  the  others  that  told 


140 LOVE  STORIES 

its  own  story  of  sleepless  hours.  A  taxicab  rolled 
along  the  street  outside,  carrying  a  boisterous  night 
party. 

The  Nurse  had  taken  of!  her  cap  and  put  it  on  a 
stand.  The  autumn  night  was  warm,  and  the  light 
touch  of  the  tulle  had  pressed  her  hair  in  damp, 
fine  curves  over  her  forehead.  There  were  purple 
hollows  of  anxiety  and  sleeplessness  under  her  eyes. 

"The  perfect  nurse,"  the  head  of  the  training 
school  was  fond  of  saying,  "is  more  or  less  of  a 
machine.  Too  much  sympathy  is  a  handicap  to  her 
work  and  an  embarrassment  to  her  patient.  A  per- 
fect, silent,  reliable,  fearless,  emotionless  machine!" 

Poor  Junior  Nurse ! 

Now  Billy  Grant,  lying  there  listening  to  some- 
thing out  of  Isaiah,  should  have  been  repenting  his 
hard-living,  hard-drinking  young  life;  should  have 
been  forgiving  the  Lindley  Grants — which  story- 
does  not  belong  here;  should  have  been  asking  for 
the  consolation  of  the  church,  and  trying  to  summon 
from  the  depths  of  his  consciousness  faint  memories 
of  early  teachings  as  to  the  life  beyond,  and  what 
he  might  or  might  not  expect  there. 

What  he  actually  did  while  the  Nurse  read  was 
to  try  to  move  his  legs,  and,  failing  this,  to  plan  a 
way  to  achieve  the  final  revenge  of  a  not  particularly 
forgiving  life. 

At  a  little  before  three  o'clock  the  Nurse  tele- 


IN  THE  PAVILION 141 

phoned  across  for  an  interne,  who  came  over  in  a 
bathrobe  over  his  pajamas  and  shot  a  hypodermic 
into  Billy  Grant's  left  arm.  Billy  Grant  hardly 
noticed.  He  was  seeing  Mrs.  Lindley  Grant  when 
his  surprise  was  sprung  on  her.  The  interne  sum- 
moned the  Nurse  into  the  hall  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head. 

"About  all  in!"  he  said.  "Heart's  gone — too 
much  booze  probably.  I'd  stay,  but  there's  nothing 
to  do." 

"Would  oxygen " 

"Oh,  you  can  try  it  if  you  like.  It's  like  blowing 
up  a  leaking  tire;  but  if  you'll  feel  better,  do  it." 
He  yawned  and  tied  the  cord  of  his  bathrobe  round 
him  more  securely.  "I  guess  you'll  be  glad  to  get 
back,"  he  observed,  looking  round  the  dingy  hall. 
"This  place  always  gives  me  a  chill.  Well,  let  me 
know  if  you  want  me.     Good  night." 

The  Nurse  stood  in  the  hallway  until  the  echo  of 
his  slippers  on  the  asphalt  had  died  away.  Then 
she  turned  to  Billy  Grant. 

"Well?"  demanded  Billy  Grant.  "How  long 
have  I?     Until  morning?" 

"If  you  would  only  not  talk  and  excite  your- 
self  " 

"Helll"  said  Billy  Grant,  we  regret  to  record. 
"I've  got  to  do  all  the  talking  I'm  going  to  do  right 
now.    I  beg  your  pardon — I  didn't  intend  to  swear." 


142 LOVE  STORIEJS 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  said  the  Nurse  vaguely. 
This  was  like  no  deathbed  she  had  ever  seen,  and  it 
was  disconcerting. 

"Shall  I  read  again4?" 

"No,  thank  you." 
The  Nurse  looked  at  her  watch,  which  had  been 

graduation  present  from  her  mother  and  which 
said,  inside  the  case :  "To  my  little  girl !"  There  is 
no  question  but  that,  when  the  Nurse's  mother  gave 
that  inscription  to  the  jeweller,  she  was  thinking  of 
the  day  when  the  Staff  Doctor  had  brought  the 
Nurse  in  his  leather  bag,  and  had  slapped  her  be- 
tween the  shoulders  to  make  her  breathe.  "To  my 
little  girl!"  said  the  watch;  and  across  from  that — 
"Three  o'clock." 

At  half-past  three  Billy  Grant,  having  matured 
his  plans,  remarked  that  if  it  would  ease  the  Nurse 
any  he'd  see  a  preacher.  His  voice  was  weaker 
again  and  broken. 

"Not" — he  said,  struggling — "not  that  I  think — 
he'll  pass  me.  But — if  you  say  so — I'll — take  a 
chance." 

All  of  which  was  diabolical  cunning;  for  when, 
as  the  result  of  a  telephone  conversation,  the  min- 
ister came,  an  unworldly  man  who  counted  the 
world,  an  automobile,  a  vested  choir  and  a  silver 
communion  service  well  lost  for  the  sake  of  a  dozen 
derelicts  in  a  slum  mission  house,  Billy  Grant  sent 


IN  THE  PAVILION 143 

the  Nurse  out  to  prepare  a  broth  he  could  no  longer 
swallow,  and  proceeded  to  cajole  the  man  of  God. 
This  he  did  by  urging  the  need  of  the  Nurse's  small 
brother  for  an  education  and  by  forgetting  to  men- 
tion either  the  Lindley  Grants  or  the  extent  of  his 
property. 

From  four  o'clock  until  five  Billy  Grant  coaxed 
the  Nurse  with  what  voice  he  had.  The  idea  had 
become  an  obsession ;  and  minute  by  minute,  panting 
breath  by  panting  breath,  her  resolution  wore  away. 
He  was  not  delirious;  he  was  as  sane  as  she  was 
and  terribly  set.  And  this  thing  he  wanted  was  so 
easy  to  grant;  meant  so  little  to  her  and,  for  some 
strange  reason,  so  much  to  him.  Perhaps,  if  she 
did  it,  he  would  think  a  little  of  what  the  preacher 
was  saying. 

At  five  o'clock,  utterly  worn  out  with  the  struggle 
and  finding  his  pulse  a  negligible  quantity,  in  re- 
sponse to  his  pleading  eyes  the  Nurse,  kneeling  and 
holding  a  thermometer  under  her  patient's  arm  with 
one  hand,  reached  the  other  one  over  the  bed  and 
was  married  in  a  dozen  words  and  a  soiled  white 
apron. 

Dawn  was  creeping  in  at  the  windows — a  grey  city 
dawn,  filled  with  soot  and  the  rumbling  of  early 
wagons.  A  smell  of  damp  asphalt  from  the  court- 
yard floated  in  and  a  dirty  sparrow  chirped  on  the 
sill  where  the  Nurse  had  been  in  the  habit  of  leav- 


144  LOVE  STORIES 

ing  crumbs.  Billy  Grant,  very  sleepy  and  con- 
tented now  that  he  had  got  his  way,  dictated  a  line 
or  two  on  a  blank  symptom  record,  and  signed  his 
will  in  a  sprawling  hand. 

"If  only,"  he  muttered,  "I  could  see  Lin's  face 
when  that's — sprung  on  him!" 

The  minister  picked  up  the  Bible  from  the  tum- 
bled bed  and  opened  it. 

"Perhaps,"  he  suggested  very  softly,  "if  I  read 
from  the  Word  of  God " 

Satisfied  now  that  he  had  fooled  the  Lindley 
Grants  out  of  their  very  shoebuttons,  Billy  Grant 
was  asleep — asleep  with  the  thermometer  under  his 
arm  and  with  his  chest  rising  and  falling  peacefully. 

The  minister  looked  across  at  the  Nurse,  who  was 
still  holding  the  thermometer  in  place.  She  had 
buried  her  face  in  the  white  counterpane. 

"You  are  a  good  woman,  sister,"  he  said  softly. 
"The  boy  is  happier,  and  you  are  none  the  worse. 
Shall  I  keep  the  paper  for  you?" 

But  the  Nurse,  worn  out  with  the  long  night, 
slept  where  she  knelt.  The  minister,  who  had  come 
across  the  street  in  a  ragged  smoking-coat  and  no 
collar,  creaked  round  the  bed  and  threw  the  edge 
of  the  blanket  over  her  shoulders. 

Then,  turning  his  coat  collar  up  over  his  unshaved 
neck,  he  departed  for  the  mission  across  the  street, 
where  one  of  his  derelicts,  in  his  shirtsleeves,  was 


IN  THE  PAVILION 145 

sweeping  the  pavement.  There,  mindful  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  come  from  the  contagious  pavilion,  the 
minister  brushed  his  shabby  smoking-coat  with  a 
whiskbroom  to  remove  the  germs! 


in 

Billy  Grant,  of  course,  did  not  die.  This  was 
perhaps  because  only  the  good  die  young.  And 
Billy  Grant's  creed  had  been  the  honour  of  a. gen- 
tleman rather  than  the  Mosaic  Law.  There  was, 
therefore,  no  particular  violence  done  to  his  code 
when  his  last  thoughts — or  what  appeared  to  be  his 
last  thoughts — were  revenge  instead  of  salvation. 

The  fact  was,  Billy  Grant  had  a  real  reason  for 
hating  the  Lindley  Grants.  When  a  fellow  like 
that  has  all  the  Van  Kleek  money  and  a  hereditary 
thirst,  he  is  bound  to  drink.  The  Lindley  Grants 
did  not  understand  this  and  made  themselves  ob- 
noxious by  calling  him  "Poor  Billy !"  and  not  hav- 
ing wine  when  he  came  to  dinner.  That,  however, 
was  not  his  reason  for  hating  them. 

Billy  Grant  fell  in  love.  To  give  the  devil  his 
due,  he  promptly  set  about  reforming  himself.  He 
took  about  half  as  many  whisky-and-sodas  as  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  doing,  and  cut  out  champagne 
altogether.  He  took  up  golf  to  fill  in  the  time,  too, 
but  gave  it  up  when  he  found  it  made  him  thirstier 


146 LOVE  STORIES 

than  ever.  And  then,  with  things  so  shaping  up 
that  he  could  rise  in  the  morning  without  having  a 
drink  to  get  up  on,  the  Lindley  Grants  thought  it 
best  to  warn  the  girl's  family  before  it  was  too  late. 

"He  is  a  nice  boy  in  some  ways,"  Mrs.  Lindley 
Grant  had  said  on  the  occasion  of  the  warning;  "but, 
like  all  drinking  men,  he  is  a  broken  reed,  eccentric 
and  irresponsible.  No  daughter  of  mine  could 
marry  him.  I'd  rather  bury  her.  And  if  you  want 
facts  Lindley  will  give  them  to  you." 

So  the  girl  had  sent  back  her  ring  and  a  cold  little 
letter,  and  Billy  Grant  had  got  roaring  full  at  a 
club  that  night  and  presented  the  ring  to  a  cabman 
— all  of  which  is  exceedingly  sordid,  but  rather 
human  after  all. 

The  Nurse,  having  had  no  sleep  for  forty-eight 
hours,  slept  for  quite  thirty  minutes.  She  wakened 
at  the  end  of  that  time  and  started  up  with  a  hor- 
rible fear  that  the  thing  she  was  waiting  for  had 
come.  But  Billy  Grant  was  still  alive,  sleeping 
naturally,  and  the  thermometer,  having  been  in  place 
forty  minutes,  registered  a  hundred  and  three. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  interne,  hurrying  over  in  fresh 
ducks,  with  a  laudable  desire  to  make  the  rounds 
before  the  Staff  began  to  drop  in,  found  Billy  Grant 
very  still  and  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  the  Nurse 
standing  beside  the  bed,  pale  and  tremulous. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know?"  he  demanded, 


IN  THE  PAVILION 147 

aggrieved.  "I  ought  to  have  been  called.  I  told 
you " 

"He  isn't  dead,"  said  the  Nurse  breathlessly. 
"He — I  think  he  is  better." 

Whereon  she  stumbled  out  of  the  room  into  her 
own  little  room  across  the  hall,  locking  the  door  be- 
hind her,  and  leaving  the  interne  to  hunt  the  symp- 
tom record  for  himself — a  thing  not  to  be  lightly 
overlooked;  though  of  course  internes  are  not  the 
Staff. 

The  interne  looked  over  the  record  and  whistled. 

"Wouldn't  that  paralyse  you!"  he  said  under  his 
breath.  "  'Pulse  very  weak.'  Tulse  almost  oblit- 
erated.' 'Very  talkative.'  'Breathing  hard  at  four 
a.  m.  Cannot  swallow.'  And  then:  'Sleeping 
calmly  from  five  o'clock.'  'Pulse  stronger.'  'Tem- 
perature one  hundred  and  three.'  By  gad,  that  last 
prescription  of  mine  was  a  hit !" 

So  now  began  a  curious  drama  of  convalescence 
in  the  little  isolation  pavilion  across  the  courtyard. 
Not  for  a  minute  did  the  two  people  most  concerned 
forget  their  strange  relationship;  not  for  worlds 
would  either  have  allowed  the  other  to  know- that  he 
or  she  remembered.  Now  and  then  the  Nurse 
caught  Billy  Grant's  eyes  fixed  on  her  as  she  moved 
about  the  room,  with  a  curious  wistful  expression  in 
them.  And  sometimes,  waking  from  a  doze,  he 
would  find  her  in  her  chair  by  the  window,  with  her 


148 LOVE  STORIES 

book  dropped  into  her  lap  and  a  frightened  look  in 
her  eyes,  staring  at  him. 

He  gained  strength  rapidly  and  the  day  came 
when,  with  the  orderly's  assistance,  he  was  lifted  to 
a  chair.  There  was  one  brief  moment  in  which  he 
stood  tottering  on  his  feet.  In  that  instant  he  had 
realised  what  a  little  thing  she  was,  after  all,  and 
what  a  cruel  advantage  he  had  used  for  his  own 
purpose. 

When  he  was  settled  in  the  chair  and  the  orderly 
had  gone  she  brought  an  extra  pillow  to  put  behind 
him,  and  he  dared  the  first  personality  of  their  new 
relationship. 

"What  a  little  girl  you  are,  after  all!"  he  said. 
"Lying  there  in  the  bed  shaking  at  your  frown,  you 
were  so  formidable." 

"I  am  not  small,"  she  said,  straightening  herself. 
She  had  always  hoped  that  her  cap  gave  her  height. 
"It  is  you  who  are  so  tall.     You — you  are  a  giant !" 

"A  wicked  giant,  seeking  whom  I  may  devour  and 
carrying  off  lovely  girls-  for  dinner  under  pretence 
of  marriage "  He  stopped  his  nonsense  abrupt- 
ly, having  got  so  far,  and  both  of  them  coloured. 
Thrashing  about  desperately  for  something  to  break 
the  wretched  silence,  he  seized  on  the  one  thing  that 
in  those  days  of  his  convalescence  was  always  perti- 
nent— food.  "Speaking  of  dinner,"  he  said  hastily, 
"isn't  it  time  for  some  buttermilk*?" 


IN  THE  PAVILION 149 

She  was  quite  calm  when  she  came  back — cool, 
even  smiling;  but  Billy  Grant  had  not  had  the  safety 
valve  of  action.  As  she  placed  the  glass  on  the 
table  at  his  elbow  he  reached  out  and  took  her  hand. 

"Can  you  ever  forgive  me?'  he  asked.  Not  an 
original  speech;  the  usual  question  of  the  maraud- 
ing male,  a  query  after  the  fact  and  too  late  for 
anything  but  forgiveness. 

"Forgive  you?    For  not  dying?" 

She  was  pale;  but  no  more  subterfuge  now,  no 
more  turning  aside  from  dangerous  subjects.  The 
matter  was  up  before  the  house. 

"For  marrying  you !"  said  Billy  Grant,  and  upset 
the  buttermilk.  It  took  a  little  time  to  wipe  up  the 
floor  and  to  put  a  clean  cover  on  the  stand,  and  after 
that  to  bring  a  fresh  glass  and  place  it  on  the  table. 
But  these  were  merely  parliamentary  preliminaries 
while  each  side  got  its  forces  in  line. 

"Do  you  hate  me  very  much?"  opened  Billy 
Grant.  This  was,  to  change  the  figure,  a  blow  be- 
low the  belt. 

"Why  should  I  hate  you?"  countered  the  other 
side. 

"I  should  think  you  would.  I  forced  the  thing 
on  you." 

"I  need  not  have  done  it." 

"But  being  you,  and  always  thinking  about  mak- 
ing some  one  else  happy  and  comfortable " 


150 LOVE  STORIES 

"Oh,  if  only  they  don't  find  it  out  over  there!" 
she  burst  out.  "If  they  do  and  I  have  to  leave, 
with  Jim " 

Here,  realising  that  she  was  going  to  cry  and  not 
caring  to  screw  up  her  face  before  any  one,  she  put 
her  arms  on  the  stand  and  buried  her  face  in  them. 
Her  stiff  tulle  cap  almost  touched  Billy  Grant's  arm. 

Billy  Grant  had  a  shocked  second. 

"Jim*?" 

"My  little  brother,"  from  the  table. 

Billy  Grant  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  For  a 
moment  he  had  thought 

"I  wonder — whether  I  dare  to  say  something  to 
you."  Silence  from  the  table  and  presumably  con- 
sent. "Isn't  he — don't  you  think  that — I  might  be 
allowed  to — to  help  Jim*?  It  would  help  me  to  like 
myself  again.  Just  now  I'm  not  standing  very  high 
with  myself." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  why  you  did  it?"  she  said, 
suddenly  sitting  up,  her  arms  still  out  before  her  on 
the  table.  "Why  did  you  coax  so*?  You  said  it 
was  because  of  a  little  property  you  had,  but — that 
wasn't  it — was  it?" 

"No." 

"Or  because  you  cared  a  snap  for  me."  This  was 
affirmation,  not  question. 

"No,  not  that,  though  I " 

She  gave  a  hopeless  little  gesture  of  despair. 


IN  THE  PAVILION 151 

"Then— why4?    Why?' 

"For  one  of  the  meanest  reasons  I  know — to  be 
even  with  some  people  who  had  treated  me  badly." 

The  thing  was  easier  now.  His  flat  denial  of  any 
sentimental  reason  had  helped  to  make  it  so. 

"A  girl  that  you  cared  about*?" 

"Partly  that.  The  girl  was  a  poor  thing.  She 
didn't  care  enough  to  be  hurt  by  anything  I  did. 
But  the  people  who  made  the  trouble " 

Now  a  curious  thing  happened.  Billy  Grant 
found  at  this  moment  that  he  no  longer  hated  the 
Lindley  Grants.  The  discovery  left  him  speechless 
— that  he  who  had  taken  his  hate  into  the  very  val- 
ley of  death  with  him  should  now  find  himself  think- 
ing of  both  Lindley  and  his  wife  with  nothing  more 
bitter  than  contempt  shocked  him.  A  state  of  affairs 
existed  for  which  his  hatred  of  the  Lindley  Grants 
was  alone  responsible;  now  the  hate  was  gone  and 
the  state  of  affairs  persisted. 

"I  should  like,"  said  Billy  Grant  presently,  "to 
tell  you  a  little — if  it  will  not  bore  you — about  my- 
self and  the  things  I  have  done  that  I  shouldn't, 
and  about  the  girl.  And  of  course,  you  know,  I'm 
— I'm  not  going  to  hold  you  to — to  the  thing  I 
forced  you  into.    There  are  ways  to  fix  that." 

Before  she  would  listen,  however,  she  must  take 
his  temperature  and  give  him  his  medicine,  and  see 
that  he  drank  his  buttermilk — the  buttermilk  last, 


152 LOVE  STORIES 

so  as  not  to  chill  his  mouth  for  the  thermometer. 
The  tired  lines  had  gone  from  under  her  eyes  and 
she  was  very  lovely  that  day.  She  had  always  been 
lovely,  even  when  the  Staff  Doctor  had  slapped  her 
between  the  shoulders  long  ago — you  know  about 
that — only  Billy  Grant  had  never  noticed  it;  but 
to-day,  sitting  there  with  the  thermometer  in  his 
mouth  while  she  counted  his  respirations,  pretending 
to  be  looking  out  the  window  while  she  did  it,  Billy 
Grant  saw  how  sweet  and  lovely  and  in  every  way 
adorable  she  was,  in  spite  of  the  sad  droop  of  her 
lips — and  found  it  hard  to  say  the  thing  he  felt  he 
must. 

"After  all,"  he  remarked  round  the  thermometer, 
"the  thing  is  not  irrevocable.  I  can  fix  it  up  so 
that " 

"Keep  your  lips  closed  about  the  thermometer!" 
she  said  sternly,  and  snapped  her  watch  shut. 

The  pulse  and  so  on  having  been  recorded,  and 
"Very  hungry"  put  down  under  Symptoms,  she  came 
back  to  her  chair  by  the  window,  facing  him.  She 
sat  down  primly  and  smoothed  her  white  apron  in 
her  lap. 

"Now!"  she  said. 

"I  am  to  go  on?" 

"Yes,  please." 

"If  you  are  going  to  change  the  pillows  or  the 
screen,  or  give  me  any  other  diabolical  truck  to  swal- 


IN  THE  PAVILION 153 

low,"  he  said  somewhat  peevishly,  "will  you  get  it 
over  now,  so  we  can  have  five  unprofessional  min- 
utes?" 

"Certainly,"  she  said;  and  bringing  an  extra 
blanket  she  spread  it,  to  his  disgust,  over  his  knees. 

This  time,  when  she  sat  down,  one  of  her  hands 
lay  on  the  table  near  him  and  he  reached  over  and 
covered  it  with  his. 

"Please!"  he  begged.  "For  company!  And  it 
will  help  me  to  tell  you  some  of  the  things  I  have 
to  tell." 

She  left  it  there,  after  an  uneasy  stirring.  So,  sit- 
ting there,  looking  out  into  the  dusty  courtyard 
with  its  bandaged  figures  in  wheeled  chairs,  its  crip- 
ples sunning  on  a  bench — their  crutches  beside  them 
— its  waterless  fountain  and  its  dingy  birds,  he  told 
her  about  the  girl  and  the  Lindley  Grants,  and  even 
about  the  cabman  and  the  ring.  And  feeling,  per- 
haps in  some  current  from  the  small  hand  under  his, 
that  she  was  knowing  and  understanding  and  not 
turning  away,  he  told  her  a  great  deal  he  had  not 
meant  to  tell — ugly  things,  many  of  them — for  that 
was  his  creed. 

And,  because  in  a  hospital  one  lives  many  lives 
vicariously  with  many  people,  what  the  girl  back 
home  would  never  have  understood  this  girl  did  and 
faced  unabashed.  Life,  as  she  knew  it,  was  not  all 
good  and  not  all  bad;  passion  and  tenderness,  vio- 


154 LOVE  STORIES 

lence  and  peace,  joy  and  wretchedness,  birth  and 
death — these  she  had  looked  on,  all  of  them,  with 
clear  eyes  and  hands  ready  to  help. 

So  Billy  Grant  laid  the  good  and  the  bad  of  his 
life  before  her,  knowing  that  he  was  burying  it  with 
her.  When  he  finished,  her  hand  on  the  table  had 
turned  and  was  clasping  his.  He  bent  over  and 
kissed  her  fingers  softly. 

After  that  she  read  to  him,  and  their  talk,  if  any, 
was  impersonal.  When  the  orderly  had  put  him 
back  to  bed  he  lay  watching  her  moving  about,  re- 
joicing in  her  quiet  strength,  her  repose.  How  well 
she  was  taking  it  all!  If  only — but  there  was  no 
hope  of  that.  She  could  go  to  Reno,  and  in  a  few 
months  she  would  be  free  again  and  the  thing  would 
be  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  the  isolation  pavilion 
was  ready  for  the  night.  The  lights  in  the  sickroom 
were  out.  In  the  hall  a  nightlight  burned  low. 
Billy  Grant  was  not  asleep.  He  tried  counting  the 
lighted  windows  of  the  hospital  and  grew  only  more 
wakeful. 

The  Nurse  was  sleeping  now  in  her  own  room 
across,  with  the  doors  open  between.  The  slightest 
movement  and  she  was  up,  tiptoeing  in,  with  her 
hair  in  a  long  braid  down  her  back  and  her  wrapper 
sleeves  falling  away  loosely  from  her  white,  young 
arms.     So,  aching  with  inaction,  Billy  Grant  lay 


IN  THE  PAVILION 155 

still  until  the  silence  across  indicated  that  she  was 
sleeping. 

Then  he  got  up.  This  is  a  matter  of  difficulty 
when  one  is  still  very  weak,  and  is  achieved  by  ris- 
ing first  into  a  sitting  posture  by  pulling  oneself  up 
by  the  bars  of  the  bed,  and  then  by  slipping  first 
one  leg,  then  the  other,  over  the  side.  Properly 
done,  even  the  weakest  thus  find  themselves  in  a 
position  that  by  the  aid  of  a  chairback  may  become, 
however  shaky,  a  standing  one. 

He  got  to  his  feet  better  than  he  expected,  but 
not  well  enough  to  relinquish  the  chair.  He  had 
made  no  sound.  That  was  good.  He  would  tell 
her  in  the  morning  and  rally  her  on  her  powers  as 
a  sleeper.    He  took  a  step — if  only  his  knees 

He  had  advanced  into  line  with  the  doorway  and 
stood  looking  through  the  open  door  of  the  room 
across. 

The  Nurse  was  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  in 
her  nightgown,  crying.  Her  whole  young  body  was 
shaken  with  silent  sobs;  her  arms,  in  their  short  white 
sleeves,  stretched  across  the  bed,  her  fingers  clutch- 
ing the  counterpane. 

Billy  Grant  stumbled  back  to  his  bed  and  fell  in 
with  a  sort  of  groan.  Almost  instantly  she  was  at 
the  door,  her  flannel  wrapper  held  about  her,  peer- 
ing into  the  darkness. 


156  LOVE  STORIES 

"I  thought  I  heard — are  you  worse  ?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said,  hating  himself;  "just  not 
sleepy.     How  about  you?" 

"Not  asleep  yet,  but — resting,"  she  replied. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  dimly  outlined,  with 
her  long  braid  over  her  shoulder  and  her  voice  still 
a  little  strained  from  crying.  In  the  darkness  Billy 
Grant  half  stretched  out  his  arms,  then  dropped 
them,  ashamed. 

"Would  you  like  another  blanket?" 

"If  there  is  one  near." 

She  came  in  a  moment  later  with  the  blanket  and 
spread  it  over  the  bed.  He  lay  very  still  while  she 
patted  and  smoothed  it  into  place.  He  was  muster- 
ing up  his  courage  to  ask  for  something — a  curious 
state  of  mind  for  Billy  Grant,  who  had  always  taken 
what  he  wanted  without  asking. 

"I  wish  you  would  kiss  me — just  once!"  he  said 
wistfully.  And  then,  seeing  her  draw  back,  he  took 
an  unfair  advantage :  "I  think  that's  the  reason  I'm 
not  sleeping." 

"Don't  be  absurd!" 

"Is  it  so  absurd — under  the  circumstances'?" 

"You  can  sleep  quite  well  if  you  only  try." 

She  went  out  into  the  hall  again,  her  chin  well 
up.  Then  she  hesitated,  turned  and  came  swiftly 
back  into  the  room. 


IN  THE  PAVILION  157 

"If  I  do,"  she  said  rather  breathlessly,  "will  you 
go  to  sleep?  And  will  you  promise  to  hold  your 
arms  up  over  your  head?" 

"But  my  arms " 

"Over  your  head !" 

He  obeyed  at  that,  and  the  next  moment  she  had 
bent  over  him  in  the  darkness ;  and  quickly,  lightly, 
deliciously,  she  kissed — the  tip  of  his  nose ! 


IV 

She  was  quite  cheerful  the  next  day  and  entirely 
composed.  Neither  of  them  referred  to  the  episode 
of  the  night  before,  but  Billy  Grant  thought  of  little 
else.  Early  in  the  morning  he  asked  her  to  bring  him 
a  hand  mirror  and,  surveying  his  face,  tortured  and 
disfigured  by  the  orderly's  shaving,  suffered  an  acute 
wound  in  his  vanity.    He  was  glad  it  had  been  dark 

or  she  probably  would  not  have He  borrowed 

a  razor  from  the  interne  and  proceeded  to  enjoy 
himself. 

Propped  up  in  his  chair,  he  rioted  in  lather,  sliced 
a  piece  out  of  his  right  ear,  and  shaved  the  back  of 
his  neck  by  touch,  in  lieu  of  better  treatment.  This 
done,  and  the  ragged  and  unkempt  hair  over  his  ears 
having  been  trimmed  in  scallops,  due  to  the  work 
being  done  with  curved  surgical  scissors,  he  was  his 
own  man  again. 


158 LOVE  STORIES 

That  afternoon,  however,  he  was  nervous  and  rest- 
less. The  Nurse  was  troubled.  He  avoided  the 
subject  that  had  so  obsessed  him  the  day  before, 
was  absent  and  irritable,  could  not  eat,  and  sat  in 
his  chair  by  the  window,  nervously  clasping  and  un- 
clasping his  hands. 

The  Nurse  was  puzzled,  but  the  Staff  Doctor, 
making  rounds  that  day,  enlightened  her. 

"He  has  pulled  through — God  and  you  alone 
know  how,"  he  said.  "But  as  soon  as  he  begins  to 
get  his  strength  he's  going  to  yell  for  liquor  again. 
When  a  man  has  been  soaking  up  alcohol  for  years 

Drat  this  hospital  cooking  anyhow!     Have 

you  got  any  essence  of  pepsin4?" 

The  Nurse  brought  the  pepsin  and  a  medicine 
glass  and  the  Staff  Doctor  swallowed  and  grimaced. 

"You  were  saying,"  said  the  Nurse  timidly — for, 
the  stress  being  over,  he  was  Staff  again  and  she 
was  a  Junior  and  not  even  entitled  to  a  Senior's 
privileges,  such  as  returning  occasional  badinage. 

"Every  atom  of  him  is  going  to  crave  it.  He's 
wanting  it  now.  He  has  been  used  to  it  for  years." 
The  Nurse  was  white  to  the  lips,  but  steady.  "He 
is  not  to  have  it?" 

"Not  a  drop  while  he  is  here.  When  he  gets  out 
it  is  his  own  affair  again,  but  while  he's  here — by- 
the-way,  you'll  have  to  watch  the  orderly.  He'll 
bribe  him." 


IN  THE  PAVILION  159 

"I  don't  think  so,  doctor.     He  is  a  gentleman." 

"Pooh!  Of  course  he  is.  I  dare  say  he's  a  gen- 
tleman when  he's  drunk  too;  but  he's  a  drinker — a 
habitual  drinker." 

The  Nurse  went  back  into  the  room  and  found 
Billy  Grant  sitting  in  a  chair,  with  the  book  he  had 
been  reading  on  the  floor  and  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands. 

"I'm  awfuly  sorry!"  he  said,  not  looking  up.  "I 
heard  what  he  said.    He's  right,  you  know." 

"I'm  sorry.  And  I'm  afra;d  this  is  a  place  where 
I  cannot  help." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  head,  and  he  brought  it 
down  and  held  it  between  his. 

"Two  or  three  times,"  he  said,  "when  things  were 
very  bad  with  me,  you  let  me  hold  your  hand,  and 
we  got  past  somehow — didn't  we*?" 

She  closed  her  eyes,  remembering  the  dawn  when, 
to  soothe  a  dying  man,  in  the  presence  of  the  mission 
preacher,  she  had  put  her  hand  in  his.  Billy  Grant 
thought  of  it  too. 

"Now  you  know  what  you've  married,"  he  said 
bitterly.  The  bitterness  was  at  himself  of  course. 
"If — if  you'll  sit  tight  I  have  a  fighting  chance  to 
make  a  man  of  myself;  and  after  it's  over  we'll  fix 
this  thing  for  you  so  you  will  forget  it  ever  hap- 
pened.    And  I Don't  take  your  hand  away. 

Please !" 


160  LOVE  STORIES 

"I  was  feeling  for  my  handkerchief,"  she  ex- 
plained. 

"Have  I  made  you  cry  again?" 

"Again?" 

"I  saw  you  last  night  in  your  room.  I  didn't  in- 
tend to;  but  I  was  trying  to  stand,  and " 

She  was  very  dignified  at  this,  with  her  eyes  still 
wet,  and  tried  unsuccessfully  to  take  her  hand  away. 

"If  you  are  going  to  get  up  when  it  is  forbidden 
I  shall  ask  to  be  relieved." 

"You  wouldn't  do  that !" 

"Let  go  of  my  hand." 

"You  wouldn't  do  that!!" 

"Please !    The  head  nurse  is  coming." 

He  freed  her  hand  then  and  she  wiped  her  eyes, 
remembering  the  "perfect,  silent,  reliable,  fearless, 
emotionless  machine." 

The  head  of  the  training  school  came  to  the  door 
of  the  pavilion,  but  did  not  enter.  The  reason  for 
this  was  twofold:  first,  she  had  confidence  in  the 
Nurse;  second,  she  was  afraid  of  contagion — this 
latter,  of  course,  quite  sub  rosa,  in  view  of  the  above 
quotation. 

The  Head  Nurse  was  a  tall  woman  in  white,  and 
was  so  starchy  that  she  rattled  like  a  newspaper 
when  she  walked. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said  briskly.  "Have  you 
sent  over  the  soiled  clothes?"    Head  nurses  are  al- 


IN  THE  PAVILION 161 

ways  bothering  about  soiled  clothes;  and  what  be- 
comes of  all  the  nailbrushes,  and  how  can  they  use 
so  many  bandages. 

"Yes,  Miss  Smith." 

"Meals  come  over  promptly?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Smith." 

"Getting  any  sleep?" 

"Oh,  yes,  plenty — now." 

Miss  Smith  peered  into  the  hallway,  which  seemed 
tidy,  looked  at  the  Nurse  with  approval,  and  then 
from  the  doorstep  into  the  patient's  room,  where 
Billy  Grant  sat.  At  the  sight  of  him  her  eyebrows 
rose. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  thought  he 
was  older  than  that!" 

"Twenty-nine,"  said  the  Nurse;  "twenty-nine  last 
Fourth  of  July." 

"H'm !"  commented  the  Head  Nurse.  "You  evi- 
dently know!  I  had  no  idea  you  were  taking  care 
of  a  boy.    It  won't  do.    I'll  send  over  Miss  Hart." 

The  Nurse  tried  to  visualise  Billy  Grant  in  his 
times  of  stress  clutching  at  Miss  Hart's  hand,  and 
failed. 

"Jenks  is  here,  of  course,"  she  said,  Jenks  being 
the  orderly.  , 

The  idea  of  Jenks  as  a  chaperon,  however,  did  not 
appeal  to  the  head  nurse.  She  took  another  glance 
through  the  window  at  Billy  Grant,  looking  uncom- 


162 LOVE  STORIES 

monly  handsome  and  quite  ten  years  younger  since 
the  shave,  and  she  set  her  lips. 

"I  am  astonished  beyond  measure,"  she  said. 
"Miss  Hart  will  relieve  you  at  two  o'clock.  Take 
your  antiseptic  bath  and  you  may  have  the  afternoon 
to  yourself.     Report  in  L  Ward  in  the  morning." 

Miss  Smith  rattled  back  across  the  courtyard  and 
the  Nurse  stood  watching  her;  then  turned  slowly 
and  went  into  the  house  to  tell  Billy  Grant. 

Now  the  stories  about  what  followed  differ.  They 
agree  on  one  point:  that  Billy  Grant  had  a  heart- 
to-heart  talk  with  the  substitute  at  two  o'clock  that 
afternoon  and  told  her  politely  but  firmly  that  he 
would  none  of  her.  Here  the  divergence  begins. 
Some  say  he  got  the  superintendent  over  the  house 
telephone  and  said  he  had  intended  to  make  a  large 
gift  to  the  hospital,  but  if  his  comfort  was  so  little 
considered  as  to  change  nurses  just  when  he  had  got 
used  to  one,  he  would  have  to  alter  his  plans.  Anoth- 
er and  more  likely  story,  because  it  sounds  more  like 
Billy  Grant,  is  that  at  five  o'clock  a  florist's  boy  de- 
livered to  Miss  Smith  a  box  of  orchids  such  as  never 
had  been  seen  before  in  the  house,  and  a  card 
inside  which  said:  "Please,  dear  Miss  Smith,  take 
back  the  Hart  that  thou  gavest." 

Whatever  really  happened — and  only  Billy  Grant 
and  the  lady  in  question  ever  really  knew — that  night 
at  eight  o'clock,  with  Billy  Grant  sitting  glumly  in 


IN  THE  PAVILION 163 

his  room  and  Miss  Hart  studying  typhoid  fever  in 
the  hall,  the  Nurse  came  back  again  to  the  pavilion 
with  her  soft  hair  flying  from  its  afternoon  wash- 
ing and  her  eyes  shining.  And  things  went  on  as 
before — not  quite  as  before ;  for  with  the  nurse  ques- 
tion settled  the  craving  got  in  its  work  again,  and 
the  next  week  was  a  bad  one.  There  were  good  days, 
when  he  taught  her  double-dummy  auction  bridge, 
followed  by  terrible  nights,  when  he  walked  the 
floor  for  hours  and  she  sat  by,  unable  to  help.  Then 
at  dawn  he  would  send  her  to  bed  remorsefully  and 
take  up  the  fight  alone.  And  there  were  quiet  nights 
when  both  slept  and  when  he  would  waken  to  the 
craving  again  and  fight  all  day. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  about  killing  her,"  he  said  to 
the  Staff  Doctor  one  day;  "but  it's  my  chance  to 
make  a  man  of  myself — now  or  never." 

The  Staff  Doctor  was  no  fool  and  he  had  heard 
about  the  orchids. 

"Fight  it  out,  boy!"  he  said.  "Pretty  soon  you'll 
quit  peeling  and  cease  being  a  menace  to  the  public 
health,  and  you'd  better  get  it  over  before  you  are 
free  again." 

So,  after  a  time,  it  grew  a  little  easier.  Grant  was 
pretty  much  himself  again — had  put  on  a  little  flesh 
and  could  feel  his  biceps  rise  under  his  fingers.  He 
took  to  cold  plunges  when  he  felt  the  craving  com- 
ing on,  and  there  were  days  when  the  little  pavilion 


164 LOVE  STORIES 

was  full  of  the  sound  of  running  water.  He  shaved 
himself  daily,  too,  and  sent  out  for  some  collars. 

Between  the  two  of  them,  since  her  return,  there 
had  been  much  of  good  fellowship,  nothing  of  senti- 
ment. He  wanted  her  near,  but  he  did  not  put  a 
hand  on  her.  In  the  strain  of  those  few  days  the 
strange,  grey  dawn  seemed  to  have  faded  into  its 
own  mists.  Only  once,  when  she  had  brought  his 
breakfast  tray  and  was  arranging  the  dishes  for  him 
— against  his  protest,  for  he  disliked  being  waited 
on — he  reached  over  and  touched  a  plain  band  ring 
she  wore.    She  coloured. 

"My  mother's,"  she  said;  "her  wedding  ring." 

Their  eyes  met  across  the  tray,  but  he  only  said, 
after  a  moment:  "Eggs  like  a  rock,  of  course! 
Couldn't  we  get  'em  raw  and  boil  them  over  here?" 

It  was  that  morning,  also,  that  he  suggested  a 
thing  which  had  been  in  his  mind  for  some  time. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  possible,"  he  asked,  "to  bring 
your  tray  in  here  and  to  eat  together?  It  would  be 
more  sociable." 

She  smiled. 

"It  isn't  permitted." 

"Do  you  think — would  another  box  of  or- 
chids  " 

She  shook  her  head  as  she  poured  out  his  coffee. 
"I  should  probably  be  expelled." 

He  was  greatly  aggrieved. 


IN  THE  PAVILION 165 

"That's  all  foolishness,"  he  said.  "How  is  that 
any  worse — any  more  unconventional — than  your 
bringing  me  your  extra  blanket  on  a  cold  night? 
Oh,  I  heard  you  last  night !" 

"Then  why  didn't  you  leave  it  on?" 

"And  let  you  freeze?" 

"I  was  quite  warm.  As  it  was,  it  lay  in  the  hall- 
way all  night  and  did  no  one  any  good." 

Having  got  thus  far  from  wedding  rings,  he  did 
not  try  to  get  back.  He  ate  alone,  and  after  break- 
fast, while  she  took  her  half-hour  of  exercise  outside 
the  window,  he  sat  inside  reading — only  apparently 
reading,  however. 

Once  she  went  quite  as  far  as  the  gate  and  stood 
looking  out. 

"Jenks !"  called  Billy  Grant. 

Jenks  has  not  entered  into  the  story  much.  He 
was  a  little  man,  rather  fat,  who  occupied  a  tiny 
room  in  the  pavilion,  carried  meals  and  soiled 
clothes,  had  sat  on  Billy  Grant's  chest  once  or  twice 
during  a  delirium,  and  kept  a  bottle  locked  in  the 
dish  closet. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jenks,  coming  behind  a  strong 
odour  of  spirt 'tus  frumenti. 

"Jenks,"  said  Billy  Grant  with  an  eye  on  the 
figure  at  the  gate,  "is  that  bottle  of  yours  empty?" 

"What  bottle?" 

"The  one  in  the  closet." 


166  LOVE  STORIES 

Jenks  eyed  Billy  Grant,  and  Billy  eyed  Jenks — 
a  look  of  man  to  man,  brother  to  brother. 

"Not  quite,  sir — a  nip  or  two." 

"At,"  suggested  Billy  Grant,  "say — five  dollars 
a  nip?" 

Jenks  smiled. 

"About  that,"  he  said.     "Filled?" 

Billy  Grant  debated.  The  Nurse  was  turning  at 
the  gate. 

"No,"  he  said.  "As  it  is,  Jenks.    Bring  it  here." 

Jenks  brought  the  bottle  and  a  glass,  but  the  glass 
was  motioned  away.  Billy  Grant  took  the  bottle 
in  his  hand  and  looked  at  it  with  a  curious  expres- 
sion. Then  he  went  over  and  put  it  in  the  upper 
bureau  drawer,  under  a  pile  of  handkerchiefs.  Jenks 
watched  him,  bewildered. 

"Just  a  little  experiment,  Jenks,"  said  Billy 
Grant. 

Jenks  understood  then  and  stopped  smiling. 

"I  wouldn't,  Mr.  Grant,"  he  said;  "it  will  only 
make  you  lose  confidence  in  yourself  when  it  doesn't 
work  out." 

"But  it's  going  to  work  out,"  said  Billy  Grant. 
"Would  you  mind  turning  on  the  cold  wa- 
ter?" 

Now  the  next  twenty-four  hours  puzzled  the 
Nurse.  When  Billy  Grant's  eyes  were  not  on  her 
with  an  unfathomable  expression  in  them,  they  were 


IN  THE  PAVILION  167 

fixed  on  something  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
dresser,  and  at  these  times  they  had  a  curious,  fixed 
look  not  unmixed  with  triumph.  She  tried  a  new 
arrangement  of  combs  and  brushes  and  tilted  the 
mirror  at  a  different  angle,  without  effect. 

That  day  Billy  Grant  took  only  one  cold  plunge. 
As  the  hours  wore  on  he  grew  more  cheerful;  the 
look  of  triumph  was  unmistakable.  He  stared  less 
at  the  dresser  and  more  at  the  Nurse.  At  last  it 
grew  unendurable.  She  stopped  in  front  of  him 
and  looked  down  at  him  severely.  She  could  only 
be  severe  when  he  was  sitting — when  he  was  stand- 
ing she  had  to  look  so  far  up  at  him,  even  when  she 
stood  on  her  tiptoes. 

"What  is  wrong  with  me?"  she  demanded.  "You 
look  so  queer!     Is  my  cap  crooked4?" 

"It  is  a  wonderful  cap." 

"Is  my  face  dirty*?" 

"It  is  a  won No,  certainly  not." 

"Then  would  you  mind  not  staring  so?  You — 
upset  me." 

"I  shall  have  to  shut  my  eyes,"  he  replied  meekly, 
and  worried  her  into  a  state  of  frenzy  by  sitting  for 
fifty  minutes  with  his  head  back  and  his  eyes  shut. 

So — the  evening  and  the  morning  were  another 
day,  and  the  bottle  lay  undisturbed  under  the  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  the  cold  shower  ceased  running,  and 
Billy  Grant  assumed  the  air  of  triumph  permanently. 


168  LOVE  STORIES 

That  morning  when  the  breakfast  trays  came  he 
walked  over  into  the  Nurse's  room  and  picked  hers 
up,  table  and  all,  carrying  it  across  the  hall.  In  his 
own  room  he  arranged  the  two  trays  side  by  side, 
and  two  chairs  opposite  each  other.  When  the 
Nurse,  who  had  been  putting  breadcrumbs  on  the 
window-sill,  turned  round  Billy  Grant  was  waiting 
to  draw  out  one  of  the  chairs,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  face  she  had  not  seen  there  before. 

"Shall  we  breakfast?"  he  said. 

"I  told  you  yesterday " 

'Think  a  minute,"  he  said  softly.  "Is  there  any 
reason  why  we  should  not  breakfast  together?"  She 
pressed  her  hands  close  together,  but  she  did  not 
speak.     "Unless — you  do  not  wish  to." 

"You  remember  you  promised,  as  soon  as  you  got 
away,  to — fix  that " 

"So  I  will  if  you  say  the  word." 

"And — to  forget  all  about  it." 

"That,"  said  Billy  Grant  solemnly,  "I  shall  never 
do  so  long  as  I  live.     Do  you  say  the  word?" 

"What  else  can  I  do?" 

"Then  there  is  somebody  else?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

He  took  a  step  toward  her,  but  still  he  did  not 
touch  her. 

"If  there  is  no  one  else,"  he  said,  "and  if  I  tell 
you  that  you  have  made  me  a  man  again— — " 


IN  THE  PAVILION  169 

"Gracious !  Your  eggs  will  be  cold."  She  made 
a  motion  toward  the  egg-cup,  but  Billy  Grant  caught 
her  hand. 

"Damn  the  eggs!"  he  said.  "Why  don't  you 
look  at  me?' 

Something  sweet  and  luminous  and  most  unpro- 
fessional shone  in  the  little  Nurse's  eyes,  and  the 
line  of  her  pulse  on  a  chart  would  have  looked  like 
a  seismic  disturbance. 

"I — I  have  to  look  up  so  far!"  she  said,  but  really 
she  was  looking  down  when  she  said  it. 

"Oh,  my  dear — my  dear!"  exulted  Billy  Grant. 
"It  is  I  who  must  look  up  at  you !"  And  with  that 
he  dropped  on  his  knees  and  kissed  the  starched  hem 
of  her  apron. 

The  Nurse  felt  very  absurd  and  a  little  fright- 
ened. 

"If  only,"  she  said,  backing  off — "if  only  you 
wouldn't  be  such  a  silly !     Jenks  is  coming !" 

But  Jenks  was  not  coming.  Billy  Grant  rose  to 
his  full  height  and  looked  down  at  her — a  new  Billy 
Grant,  the  one  who  had  got  drunk  at  a  club  and 
given  a  ring  to  a  cabman  having  died  that  grey 
morning  some  weeks  before. 

"I  love  you — love  you — love  you!"  he  said,  and 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

Now  the  Head  Nurse  was  interviewing  an  appli- 


170 LOVE  STORIES 

cant;  and,  as  the  H.  N.  took  a  constitutional  each 
morning  in  the  courtyard  and  believed  in  losing  no 
time,  she  was  holding  the  interview  as  she  walked. 

"I  think  I  would  make  a  good  nurse,"  said  the 
applicant,  a  trifle  breathless,  the  h.  n.  being  a  brisk 
walker.     "I  am  so  sympathetic." 

The  H.  N.  stopped  and  raised  a  reproving  fore- 
finger. 

"Too  much  sympathy  is  a  handicap,"  she  orated. 
"The  perfect  nurse  is  a  silent,  reliable,  fearless,  emo- 
tionless machine — this  little  building  here  is  the  iso- 
lation pavilion." 

"An  emotionless  machine,"  repeated  the  applicant. 
"I  see — an  e " 

The  words  died  on  her  lips.  She  was  looking 
past  a  crowd  of  birds  on  the  windowsill  to  where, 
just  inside,  Billy  Grant  and  the  Nurse  in  a  very 
mussed  cap  were  breakfasting  together.  And  as  she 
looked  Billy  Grant  bent  over  across  the  tray. 

"I  adore  you !"  he  said  distinctly  and,  lifting  the 
Nurse's  hands,  kissed  first  one  and  then  the  other. 

"It  is  hard  work,"  said  Miss  Smith — having 
made  a  note  that  the  boys  in  the  children's  ward 
must  be  restrained  from  lowering  a  pasteboard  box 
on  a  string  from  a  window — "hard  work  without 
sentiment.     It  is  not  a  romantic  occupation." 

She  waved  an  admonitory  hand  toward  the  win- 
clow,  and  the  box  went  up  swiftly.     The  applicant 


IN  THE  PAVILION 171 

looked  again  toward  the  pavilion,  where  Billy  Grant, 
having  kissed  the  Nurse's  hands,  had  buried  his  face 
in  her  two  palms. 

The  mild  October  sun  shone  down  on  the  court- 
yard, with  its  bandaged  figures  in  wheel-chairs,  its 
cripples  sunning  on  a  bench,  their  crutches  beside 
them,  its  waterless  fountain  and  dingy  birds. 

The  applicant  thrilled  to  it  all — joy  and  suffer- 
ing, birth  and  death,  misery  and  hope,  life  and  love. 
Love ! 

The  H.  N.  turned  to  her  grimly,  but  her  eyes  were 
soft. 

"All  this,"  she  said,  waving  her  hand  vaguely, 
"for  eight  dollars  a  month !" 

"I  think,"  said  the  applicant  shyly,  "I  should  like 
to  come." 


GOD'S  FOOL 


GOD'S  FOOL 


THE  great  God  endows  His  children  variously. 
To  some  He  gives  intellect — and  they  move 
the  earth.  To  some  He  allots  heart — and  the  beat- 
ing pulse  of  humanity  is  theirs.  But  to  some  He 
gives  only  a  soul,  without  intelligence — and  these, 
who  never  grow  up,  but  remain  always  His  children, 
are  God's  fools,  kindly,  elemental,  simple,  as  if  from 
His  palette  the  Artist  of  all  had  taken  one  colour 
instead  of  many. 

The  Dummy  was  God's  fool.  Having  only  a 
soul  and  no  intelligence,  he  lived  the  life  of  the 
soul.  Through  his  faded,  childish  old  blue  eyes 
he  looked  out  on  a  world  that  hurried  past  him  with, 
at  best,  a  friendly  touch  on  his  shoulder.  No 
man  shook  his  hand  in  comradeship.  No  woman 
save  the  little  old  mother  had  ever  caressed 
him.  He  lived  alone  in  a  world  of  his  own  fashion- 
ing, peopled  by  moving,  noiseless  figures  and  filled 
with  dreams — noiseless  because  the  Dummy  had  ears 
that  heard  not  and  lips  that  smiled  at  a  kindness, 
but  that  did  not  speak. 

In  this  world  of  his  there  was  no  uncharitableness 
175 


176 LOVE  STORIES 

— no  sin.  There  was  a  God — why  should  he  not 
know  his  Father*? — there  were  brasses  to  clean  and 
three  meals  a  day;  and  there  was  chapel  on  Sunday, 
where  one  held  a  book — the  Dummy  held  his  upside 
down — and  felt  the  vibration  of  the  organ,  and 
proudly  watched  the  afternoon  sunlight  smiling  on 
the  polished  metal  of  the  chandelier  and  choir  rail. 

The  Probationer  sat  turning  the  bandage  machine 
and  watching  the  Dummy,  who  was  polishing  the 
brass  plates  on  the  beds.  The  plates  said:  "En- 
dowed in  perpetuity" — by  various  leading  citizens, 
to  whom  God  had  given  His  best  gifts,  both  heart 
and  brain. 

"How  old  do  you  suppose  he  is*?"  she  asked,  drop- 
ping her  voice. 

The  Senior  Nurse  was  writing  fresh  labels  for  the 
medicine  closet,  and  for  "tincture  of  myrrh"  she 
wrote  absently  tincture  of  mirth,"  and  had  to  tear 
it  up. 

"He  can't  hear  you,"  she  said  rather  shortly. 
"How  old?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  About  a  hundred, 
I  should  think." 

This  was,  of  course,  because  of  his  soul,  which  was 
all  he  had,  and  which,  having  existed  from  the 
beginning,  was  incredibly  old.  The  little  dead 
mother  could  have  told  them  that  he  was  less  than 
thirty. 


GODS  FOOL 177 

The  Probationer  sat  winding  bandages.  Now 
and  then  they  went  crooked  and  had  to  be  done 
again.  She  was  very  tired.  The  creaking  of  the 
bandage  machine  made  her  nervous — that  and  a  sort 
of  disillusionment;  for  was  this  her  great  mission, 
this  sitting  in  a  silent,  sunny  ward,  where  the  double 
row  of  beds  held  only  querulous  convalescent  wo- 
men? How  close  was  she  to  life  who  had  come  to 
soothe  the  suffering  and  close  the  eyes  of  the  dying; 
who  had  imagined  that  her  instruments  of  healing 
were  a  thermometer  and  a  prayer-book;  and  who 
found  herself  fighting  the  good  fight  with  a  bandage 
machine  and,  even  worse,  a  scrubbing  brush  and  a 
finetooth  comb? 

The  Senior  Nurse,  having  finished  the  M's, 
glanced  up  and  surprised  a  tear  on  the  Probationer's 
round  young  cheek.  She  was  wise,  having  trained 
many  probationers. 

"Go  to  first  supper,  please,"  she  said.  First  sup- 
per is  the  Senior's  prerogative;  but  it  is  given  occa- 
sionally to  juniors  and  probationers  as  a  mark  of 
approval,  or  when  the  Senior  is  not  hungry,  or  when 
a  probationer  reaches  the  breaking  point,  which  is 
just  before  she  gets  her  uniform. 

The  Probationer  smiled  and  brightened.  After 
all,  she  must  be  doing  fairly  well;  and  if  she  were 
not  in  the  battle  she  was  of  it.  Glimpses  she  had 
of  the  battle — stretchers  going  up  and  down  in  the 


178 LOVE  STORIES 

slow  elevator;  sheeted  figures  on  their  way  to  the 
operating  room;  the  clang  of  the  ambulance  bell  in 
the  courtyard;  the  occasional  cry  of  a  new  life 
ushered  in ;  the  impressive  silence  of  an  old  life  going 
out.     She  surveyed  the  bandages  on  the  bed. 

"I'll  put  away  the  bandages  first,"  she  said. 
"That's  what  you  said,  I  think — never  to  leave  the 
emergency  bed  with  anything  on  it*?" 

"Right-oh !"  said  the  Senior. 

"Though  nothing  ever  happens  back  here — does 
it?' 

"It's  about  our  turn;  I'm  looking  for  a  burned 
case."  The  Probationer,  putting  the  bandages  into 
a  basket,  turned  and  stared. 

"We  have  had  two  in  to-day  in  the  house,"  the 
Senior  went  on,  starting  on  the  N's  and  making  the 
capital  carefully.  "There  will  be  a  third,  of  course; 
and  we  may  get  it.  Cases  always  seem  to  run  in 
threes.  While  you're  straightening  the  bed  I  sup- 
pose I  might  as  well  go  to  supper  after  all." 

So  it  was  the  Probationer  and  the  Dummy  who 
received  the  new  case,  while  the  Senior  ate  cold 
salmon  and  fried  potatoes  with  other  seniors,  and  in- 
veighed against  lectures  on  Saturday  evening  and 
other  things  that  seniors  object  to,  such  as  things  lost 
in  the  wash,  and  milk  in  the  coffee  instead  of  cream, 
and  women  from  the  Avenue  who  drank  carbolic  add 
and  kept  the  ambulance  busy. 


GODS  FOOL 179 

The  Probationer  was  from  the  country  and  she 
had  never  heard  of  the  Avenue.  And  the  Dummy, 
who  walked  there  daily  with  the  superintendent's 
dog,  knew  nothing  of  its  wickedness.  In  his  soul, 
where  there  was  nothing  but  kindness,  there  was 
even  a  feeling  of  tenderness  for  the  Avenue.  Once 
the  dog  had  been  bitten  by  a  terrier  from  one  of  the 
houses,  and  a  girl  had  carried  him  in  and  washed 
the  wounds  and  bound  them  up.  Thereafter  the 
Dummy  had  watched  for  her  and  bowed  when  he 
saw  her.  When  he  did  not  see  her  he  bowed  to  the 
house. 

The  Dummy  finished  the  brass  plates  and,  gather- 
ing up  his  rags  and  polish,  shuffled  to  the  door.  His 
walk  was  a  patient  shamble,  but  he  covered  incred- 
ible distances.  When  he  reached  the  emergency  bed 
he  stopped  and  pointed  to  it.  The  Probationer 
looked  startled. 

"He's  tellin'  you  to  get  it  ready,"  shrilled  Irish 
Delia,  sitting  up  in  the  next  bed.  "He  did  that  be- 
fore you  was  brought  in,"  she  called  to  Old  Maggie 
across  the  ward.  "Goodness  knows  how  he  finds 
out — but  he  knows.  Get  the  spread  off  the  bed, 
miss.     There's  something  coming." 

The  Probationer  had  come  from  the  country  and 
naturally  knew  nothing  of  the  Avenue.  Sometimes 
on  her  off  duty  she  took  short  walks  there,  wonder- 


180 LOVE  STORIES 

ing  if  the  passers-by  who  stared  at  her  knew  that 
she  was  a  part  of  the  great  building  that  loomed  over 
the  district,  happily  ignorant  of  the  real  significance 
of  their  glances.  Once  a  girl,  sitting  behind  bowed 
shutters,  had  leaned  out  and  smiled  at  her. 

"Hot  to-day,  isn't  it4?"  she  said. 

The  Probationer  stopped  politely. 

"It's  fearful!  Is  there  any  place  near  where  I 
can  get  some  soda  water?" 

The  girl  in  the  window  stared. 

"There's  a  drug  store  two  squares  down,"  she 
said.     "And  say,  if  I  were  you " 

"Yes?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  said  the  girl  in  the  window,  and 
quite  unexpectedly  slammed  the  shutters. 

The  Probationer  had  puzzled  over  it  quite  a  lot. 
More  than  once  she  walked  by  the  house,  but  she 
did  not  see  the  smiling  girl — only,  curiously  enough, 
one  day  she  saw  the  Dummy  passing  the  house  and 
watched  him  bow  and  take  off  his  old  cap,  though 
there  was  no  one  in  sight. 

Sooner  or  later  the  Avenue  girls  get  to  the  hos- 
pital. Sometimes  it  is  because  they  cannot  sleep, 
and  lie  and  think  things  over — and  there  is  no  way 
out;  and  God  hates  them — though,  of  course,  there 
is  that  story  about  Jesus  and  the  Avenue  woman. 
And  what  is  the  use  of  going  home  and  being  asked 
questions  that  cannot  be  answered?     So  they  try 


GOD'S  FOOL 181 

to  put  an  end  to  things  generally — and  end  up  in 
the  emergency  bed,  terribly  frightened,  because  it 
has  occurred  to  them  that  if  they  do  not  dare  to 
meet  the  home  folks  how  are  they  going  to  meet  the 
Almighty? 

Or  sometimes  it  is  jealousy.  Even  an  Avenue 
woman  must  love  some  one;  and,  because  she's  an 
elemental  creature,  if  the  object  of  her  affections 
turns  elsewhere  she's  rather  apt  to  use  a  knife  or  a 
razor.  In  that  case  it  is  the  rival  who  ends  up  on 
the  emergency  bed. 

Or  the  life  gets  her,  as  it  does  sooner  or  later,  and 
she  comes  in  with  typhoid  or  a  cough,  or  other  things, 
and  lies  alone,  day  after  day,  without  visitors  or 
inquiries,  making  no  effort  to  get  better,  because — 
well,  why  should  she? 

And  so  the  Dummy's  Avenue  Girl  met  her  turn 
and  rode  down  the  street  in  a  clanging  ambulance, 
and  was  taken  up  in  the  elevator  and  along  a  grey 
hall  to  where  the  emergency  bed  was  waiting;  and 
the  Probationer,  very  cold  as  to  hands  and  feet,  wac 
sending  mental  appeals  to  the  Senior  to  come — and 
come  quickly.  The  ward  got  up  on  elbows  and 
watched.     Also  it  told  the  Probationer  what  to  do. 

"Hot-water  bottles  and  screens,"  it  said  variously. 
"Take  her  temperature.  Don't  be  frightened! 
There'll  be  a  doctor  in  a  minute." 

The  girl  lay  on  the  bed  with  her  eyes  shut.     It 


182 LOVE  STORIES 

was  Irish  Delia  who  saw  the  Dummy  and  raised  a 
cry. 

"Look  at  the  Dummy !"  she  said.     "He's  crying." 

The  Dummy's  world  had  always  been  a  small  one. 
There  was  the  superintendent,  who  gave  him  his 
old  clothes ;  and  there  was  the  engineer,  who  brought 
him  tobacco;  and  there  were  the  ambulance  horses, 
who  talked  to  him  now  and  then  without  speech. 
And,  of  course,  there  was  his  Father. 

Fringing  this  small  inner  circle  of  his  heart  was 
a  kaleidoscope  of  changing  faces,  nurses,  internes, 
patients,  visitors — a  wall  of  life  that  kept  inviolate 
his  inner  shrine.  And  in  the  holiest  place,  where  had 
dwelt  only  his  Father,  and  not  even  the  superinten- 
dent, the  Dummy  had  recently  placed  the  Avenue 
Girl.  She  was  his  saint,  though  he  knew  nothing  of 
saints.  Who  can  know  why  he  chose  her?  A 
queer  trick  of  the  soul  perhaps — or  was  it  super-wis- 
dom"?— to  choose  her  from  among  many  saintly 
women  and  so  enshrine  her. 

Or  perhaps Down  in  the  chapel,  in  a 

great  glass  window,  the  young  John  knelt  among 
lilies  and  prayed.  When,  at  service  on  Sundays,  the 
sunlight  came  through  on  to  the  Dummy's  polished 
choir  rail  and  candles,  the  young  John  had  the  face 
of  a  girl,  with  short  curling  hair,  very  yellow  for 
the  colour  scheme.  The  Avenue  Girl  had  hair  like 
that  and  was  rather  like  him  in  other  ways. 


GOD'S  FOOL  183 


And  here  she  was  where  all  the  others  had  come, 
and  where  countless  others  would  come  sooner  or 
later.  She  was  not  unconscious  and  at  Delia's  cry- 
she  opened  her  eyes.  The  Probationer  was  off  fill- 
ing water  bottles,  and  only  the  Dummy,  stricken, 
round-shouldered,  unlovely,  stood  beside  her. 

"Rotten  luck,  old  top !"  she  said  faintly. 

To  the  Dummy  it  was  a  benediction.  She  could 
open  her  eyes.     The  miracle  of  speech  was  still  hers. 

"Cigarette!"  explained  the  Avenue  Girl,  seeing 
his  eyes  still  on  her.  "Must  have  gone  to  sleep  with 
it  and  dropped  it.     I'm — all  in!" 

"Don't  you  talk  like  that,"  said  Irish  Delia,  bend- 
ing over  from  the  next  bed.  "You'll  get  well  a' 
right — unless  you  inhaled.  Y'ought  to  'a'  kept 
your  mouth  shut." 

Across  the  ward  Old  Maggie  had  donned  her 
ragged  slippers  and  a  blue  calico  wrapper  and 
shuffled  to  the  foot  of  the  emergency  bed.  Old 
Maggie  was  of  that  vague  neighbourhood  back  of 
the  Avenue,  where  squalor  and  poverty  rubbed  el- 
bows with  vice,  and  scorned  it. 

"Humph!"  she  said,  without  troubling  to  lower 
her  voice.  "I've  seen  her  often.  I  done  her  wash- 
ing once.     She's  as  bad  as  they  make  'em." 

"You  shut  your  mouth !"  Irish  Delia  rose  to  the 
defence.  "She's  in  trouble  now  and  what  she  was 
don't  matter.     You  go  back  to  bed  or  I'll  tell  the 


184 LOVE  STORIES 

Head  Nurse  on  you.  Look  out!  The  Dum- 
my  " 

The  Dummy  was  advancing  on  Old  Maggie  with 
threatening  eyes.  As  the  woman  recoiled  he  caught 
her  arm  in  one  of  his  ugly,  misshapen  hands  and 
jerked  her  away  from  the  bed.  Old  Maggie  reeled 
— almost  fell. 

"You  all  seen  that!"  she  appealed  to  the  ward. 
"I  haven't  even  spoke  to  him  and  he  attacked  me! 
I'll  go  to  the  superintendent  about  it.     I'll " 

The  Probationer  hurried  in.  Her  young  cheeks 
were  flushed  with  excitement  and  anxiety ;  her  arms 
were  full  of  jugs,  towels,  bandages — anything  she 
could  imagine  as  essential.  She  found  the  Dummy 
on  his  knees  polishing  a  bed  plate,  and  the  ward  in 
order — only  Old  Maggie  was  grumbling  and  mak- 
ing her  way  back  to  bed ;  and  Irish  Delia  was  sitting 
up,  with  her  eyes  shining — for  had  not  the  Dummy, 
who  could  not  hear,  known  what  Old  Maggie  had 
said  about  the  new  girl?  Had  she  not  said  that  he 
knew  many  things  that  were  hidden,  though  God 
knows  how  he  knew  them*? 

The  next  hour  saw  the  Avenue  Girl  through  a 
great  deal.  Her  burns  were  dressed  by  an  interne 
and  she  was  moved  back  to  a  bed  at  the  end  of  the 
ward.  The  Probationer  sat  beside  her,  having  re- 
fused supper.  The  Dummy  was  gone — the  Senior 
Nurse  had  shooed  him  off  as  one  shoos  a  chicken 


GOD'S  FOOL 185 

"Get  out  of  here !  You're  always  under  my  feet," 
she  had  said — not  unkindly — and  pointed  to  the 
door. 

The  Dummy  had  stood,  with  his  faded  old-young 
eyes  on  her,  and  had  not  moved.  The  Senior,  who 
had  the  ward  supper  to  serve  and  beds  to  brush  out 
and  backs  to  rub,  not  to  mention  having  to  make 
up  the  emergency  bed  and  clear  away  the  dressings — 
the  Senior  tried  diplomacy  and  offered  him  an  or- 
ange from  her  own  corner  of  the  medicine  closet.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"I  guess  he  wants  to  know  whether  that  girl  from 
the  Avenue's  going  to  get  well,"  said  Irish  Delia. 
"He  seems  to  know  her." 

There  was  a  titter  through  the  ward  at  this.  Old 
Maggie's  gossiping  tongue  had  been  busy  during  the 
hour.     From  pity  the  ward  had  veered  to  contempt. 

"Humph!"  said  the  Senior,  and  put  the  orange 
back.  "Why,  yes;  I  guess  she'll  get  well.  But 
how  in  Heaven's  name  am  I  to  let  him  know^" 

She  was  a  resourceful  person,  however,  and  by 
pointing  to  the  Avenue  Girl  and  then  nodding  reas- 
suringly she  got  her  message  of  cheer  over  the  gulf  of 
his  understanding.  In  return  the  Dummy  told  her 
by  gestures  how  he  knew  the  girl  and  how  she  had 
bound  up  the  leg  of  the  superintendent's  dog.  The 
Senior  was  a  literal  person  and  not  occult;  and  she 
was  very  busy.     When  the  Dummy  stooped  to  in- 


186  LOVE  STORIES 

dicate  the  dog,  a  foot  or  so  from  the  ground,  she 
seized  that  as  the  key  of  the  situation. 

"He's  trying  to  let  me  know  that  he  knew  her 
when  she  was  a  baby,"  she  observed  generally.  "All 
right,  if  that's  the  case.  Come  in  and  see  her  when 
you  want  to.    And  now  get  out,  for  goodness'  sake !" 

The  Dummy,  with  his  patient  shamble,  made  his 
way  out  of  the  ward  and  stored  his  polishes  for  the 
night  in  the  corner  of  a  scrub-closet.  Then,  ignor- 
ing supper,  he  went  down  the  stairs,  flight  after 
flight,  to  the  chapel.  The  late  autumn  sun  had  set 
behind  the  buildings  across  the  courtyard  and  the 
lower  part  of  the  silent  room  was  in  shadow ;  but  the 
afterglow  came  palely  through  the  stained-glass  win- 
dow, with  the  young  John  and  tall  stalks  of  white 
lilies,  and  "To  the  Memory  of  My  Daughter  Eliza- 
beth" beneath. 

It  was  only  a  coincidence — and  not  even  that  to 
the  Dummy — but  Elizabeth  had  been  the  Avenue 
Girl's  name  not  so  long  ago. 

The  Dummy  sat  down  near  the  door  very  humbly 
and  gazed  at  the  memorial  window. 

II 

Time  may  be  measured  in  different  ways — by 
joys;  by  throbs  of  pain;  by  instants;  by  centuries. 
In  a  hospital  it  is  marked  by  night  nurses  and  day 
nurses;  by  rounds  of  the  Staff;  by  visiting  days;  by 


GODS  FOOL 187 

medicines  and  temperatures  and  milk  diets  and  fever 
baths;  by  the  distant  singing  in  the  chapel  on  Sun- 
days; by  the  shift  of  the  morning  sun  on  the  east 
beds  to  the  evening  sun  on  the  beds  along  the  west 
windows. 

The  Avenue  Girl  lay  alone  most  of  the  time.  The 
friendly  offices  of  the  ward  were  not  for  her.  Pri- 
vate curiosity  and  possible  kindliness  were  over- 
shadowed by  a  general  arrogance  of  goodness.  The 
ward  flung  its  virtue  at  her  like  a  weapon  and  she 
raised  no  defence.  In  the  first  days  things  were  not 
so  bad.  She  lay  in  shock  for  a  time,  and  there  were 
not  wanting  hands  during  the  bad  hours  to  lift  a 
cup  of  water  to  her  lips;  but  after  that  came  the 
tedious  time  when  death  no  longer  hovered  overhead 
and  life  was  there  for  the  asking. 

The  curious  thing  was  that  the  Avenue  Girl  did 
not  ask.  She  lay  for  hours  without  moving,  with 
eyes  that  seemed  tired  with  looking  into  the  dregs 
of  life.     The  Probationer  was  in  despair. 

"She  could  get  better  if  she  would,"  she  said  to 
the  interne  one  day.  The  Senior  was  off  duty  and 
they  had  done  the  dressing  together.  "She  just 
won't  try." 

"Perhaps  she  thinks  it  isn't  worth  while,"  replied 
the  interne,  who  was  drying  his  hands  carefully 
while  the  Probationer  waited  for  the  towel. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  Probationer. 


188 LOVE  STORIES 

"She  hasn't  much  to  look  forward  to,  you  know." 

The  Probationer  was  not  accustomed  to  discussing 
certain  things  with  young  men,  but  she  had  the 
Avenue  Girl  on  her  mind. 

"She  has  a  home — she  admits  it."  She  coloured 
bravely.  "Why — why  cannot  she  go  back  to  it, 
even  now?" 

The  interne  poured  a  little  rosewater  and  glyce^ 
rine  into  the  palm  of  one  hand  and  gave  the  Proba- 
tioner the  bottle.  If  his  fingers  touched  hers  she 
never  knew  it. 

"Perhaps  they'd  not  want  her  after — well,  they'd 
never  feel  the  same,  likely.  They'd  probably  prefer 
to  think  of  her  as  dead  and  let  it  go  at  that.  There 
— there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  way  back,  you  know." 

He  was  exceedingly  self-conscious. 

"Then  life  is  very  cruel,"  said  the  Probationer 
with  rather  shaky  lips. 

And  going  back  to  the  Avenue  Girl's  bed  she  filled 
her  cup  with  ice  and  straightened  her  pillows.  It 
was  her  only  way  of  showing  defiance  to  a  world 
that  mutilated  its  children  and  turned  them  out  to 
die.  The  interne  watched  her  as  she  worked.  It 
rather  galled  him  to  see  her  touching  this  patient. 
He  had  no  particular  sympathy  for  the  Avenue  Girl. 
He  was  a  man,  and  ruthless,  as  men  are  apt  to  be 
in  such  things. 

The  Avenue  Girl  had  no  visitors.     She  had  had 


GOD'S  FOOL 189 

one  or  two  at  first — pretty  girls  with  tired  eyes  and 
apologetic  glances;  a  negress  who  got  by  the  hall 
porter  with  a  box  of  cigarettes,  which  the  Senior 
promptly  confiscated;  and — the  Dummy.  Morning 
and  evening  came  the  Dummy  and  stood  by  her  bed 
and  worshipped.  Morning  and  evening  he  brought 
tribute — a  flower  from  the  masses  that  came  in  daily ; 
an  orange,  got  by  no  one  knows  what  trickery  from 
the  kitchen;  a  leadpencil;  a  box  of  cheap  candies. 
At  first  the  girl  had  been  embarrassed  by  his  visits. 
Later,  as  the  unfriendliness  of  the  ward  grew  more 
pronounced,  she  greeted  him  with  a  faint  smile. 
The  first  time  she  smiled  he  grew  quite  pale  and 
shuffled  out.  Late  that  night  they  found  him  sit- 
ting in  the  chapel  looking  at  the  window,  which  was 
only  a  blur. 

For  certain  small  services  in  the  ward  the  Senior 
depended  on  the  convalescents — filling  drinking 
cups;  passing  milk  at  eleven  and  three;  keeping  the 
white  bedspreads  in  geometrical  order.  But  the 
Avenue  Girl  was  taboo.  The  boycott  had  been  in- 
stituted by  Old  Maggie.  The  rampant  respectabil- 
ity of  the  ward  even  went  so  far  as  to  refuse  to 
wash  her  in  those  early  morning  hours  when  the 
night  nurse,  flying  about  with  her  cap  on  one  ear, 
was  carrying  tin  basins  about  like  a  blue-and-white 
cyclone.  The  Dummy  knew  nothing  of  the  wash- 
ing; the  early  morning  was  the  time  when  he  pol- 


190 LOVE  STORIES 

ished  the  brass  doorplate  which  said:  Hospital  and 
Free  Dispensary.  But  he  knew  about  the  drinking 
cup  and  after  a  time  that  became  his  self-appointed 
task. 

On  Sundays  he  put  on  his  one  white  shirt  and  a 
frayed  collar  two  sizes  too  large  and  went  to  chapel. 
At  those  times  he  sat  with  his  prayer  book  upside 
down  and  watched  the  Probationer  who  cared  for 
his  lady  and  who  had  no  cap  to  hide  her  shining  hair, 
and  the  interne,  who  was  glad  there  was  no  cap 
because  of  the  hair.  God's  fool  he  was,  indeed,  for 
he  liked  to  look  in  the  interne's  eyes,  and  did  not 
know  an  interne  cannot  marry  for  years  and  years, 
and  that  a  probationer  must  not  upset  discipline  by 
being  engaged.  God's  fool,  indeed,  who  could  see 
into  the  hearts  of  men,  but  not  into  their  thoughts 
or  their  lives;  and  who,  seeing  only  thus,  on  two 
dimensions  of  life  and  not  the  third,  found  the 
Avenue  Girl  holy  and  worthy  of  all  worship ! 

The  Probationer  worried  a  great  deal. 

"It  must  hurt  her  so!"  she  said  to  the  Senior. 
"Did  you  see  them  call  that  baby  away  on  visiting 
day  for  fear  she  would  touch  it  ¥' 

"None  are  so  good  as  the  untempted,"  explained 
the  Senior,  who  had  been  beautiful  and  was  now 
placid  and  full  of  good  works.  "You  cannot  re- 
make the  world,  child.     Bodies  are  our  business  here 


GOD'S  FOOL  191 

— not  souls."  But  the  next  moment  she  called  Old 
Maggie  to  her. 

"I've  been  pretty  patient,  Maggie,"  she  said. 
"You  know  what  I  mean.  You're  the  ringleader. 
Now  things  are  going  to  change,  or — you'll  go  back 
on  codliver  oil  to-night." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Old  Maggie  meekly,  with  hate  in 
her  heart.     She  loathed  the  codliver  oil. 

"Go  back  and  straighten  her  bed!"  commanded 
the  Senior  sternly. 

"Now*?" 

"Now !" 

"It  hurts  my  back  to  stoop  over,"  whined  Old 
Maggie,  with  the  ward  watching.  "The  doctor  said 
that  I " 

The  Senior  made  a  move  for  the  medicine  closet 
and  the  bottles  labelled  C. 

"I'm  going,"  whimpered  Old  Maggie.  "Can't 
you  give  a  body  time*?" 

And  she  went  down  to  defeat,  with  the  laughter 
of  the  ward  in  her  ears — down  to  defeat,  for  the 
Avenue  Girl  would  have  none  of  her. 

"You  get  out  of  here!"  she  said  fiercely  as  Old 
Maggie  set  to  work  at  the  draw  sheet.  "Get  out 
quick — or  I'll  throw  this  cup  in  your  face!" 

The  Senior  was  watching.  Old  Maggie  put  on 
an  air  of  benevolence  and  called  the  Avenue  Girl  an 
unlovely  name  under  her  breath  while  she  smoothed 


192 LOVE  STORIES 

her  pillow.  She  did  not  get  the  cup,  but  the  water 
out  of  it,  in  her  hard  old  face,  and  matters  were  as 
they  had  been. 

The  Girl  did  not  improve  as  she  should.  The 
interne  did  the  dressing  day  after  day,  while  the 
Probationer  helped  him — the  Senior  disliked  burned 
cases — and  talked  of  skin  grafting  if  a  new  powder 
he  had  discovered  did  no  good.  Internes  are  always 
trying  out  new  things,  looking  for  the  great  dis- 
covery. 

The  powder  did  no  good.  The  day  came  when, 
the  dressing  over  and  the  white  coverings  drawn  up 
smoothly  again  over  her  slender  body,  the  Avenue 
Girl  voiced  the  question  that  her  eyes  had  asked  each 
time. 

"Am  I  going  to  lie  in  this  hole  all  my  life?"  she 
demanded. 

The  interne  considered. 

"It  isn't  healing — not  very  fast  anyhow,"  he  said. 
"If  we  could  get  a  little  skin  to  graft  on  you'd  be 
all  right  in  a  jiffy.  Can't  you  get  some  friends  to 
come  in?     It  isn't  painful  and  it's  over  in  a  minute." 

"Friends?  Where  would  I  get  friends  of  that 
sort?" 

"Well,  relatives  then — some  of  your  own  peo- 
ple?" 

The  Avenue  Girl  shut  her  eyes  as  she  did  when 
the  dressing  hurt  her. 


GOD'S  FOOL 193 

"None  that  I'd  care  to  see,"  she  said.  And  the 
Probationer  knew  she  lied.  The  interne  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"If  you  think  of  any  let  me  know.  We'll  get 
them  here,"  he  said  briskly,  and  turned  to  see  the 
Probationer  rolling  up  her  sleeve. 

"Please!"  she  said,  and  held  out  a  bare  white 
arm.  The  interne  stared  at  it  stupefied.  It  was 
very  lovely. 

"I  am  not  at  all  afraid,"  urged  the  Probationer, 
"and  my  blood  is  good.  It  would  grow — I  know  it 
would." 

The  interne  had  hard  work  not  to  stoop  and  kiss 
the  blue  veins  that  rose  to  the  surface  in  the  inner 
curve  of  her  elbow.  The  dressing  screens  were  up 
and  the  three  were  quite  alone.  To  keep  his  voice 
steady  he  became  stern. 

"Put  your  sleeve  down  and  don't  be  a  foolish 
girl!"  he  commanded.  "Put  your  sleeve  down!" 
His  eyes  said:  "You  wonder!  You  beauty!  You 
brave  little  girl!" 

Because  the  Probationer  seemed  to  take  her  re- 
sponsibilities rather  to  heart,  however,  and  because, 
when  he  should  have  been  thinking  of  other  things, 
such  as  calling  up  the  staff  and  making  reports,  he 
kept  seeing  that  white  arm  and  the  resolute  face 
above  it,  the  interne  worked  out  a  plan. 

"I've  fixed  it,  I  think,"  he  said,  meeting  her  in  a 


194 LOVE  STORIES 

hallway  where  he  had  no  business  to  be,  and  trying 
to  look  as  if  he  had  not  known  she  was  coming. 
"Father  Feeny  was  in  this  morning  and  I  tackled 
him.  He's  got  a  lot  of  students — fellows  studying 
for  the  priesthood — and  he  says  any  daughter  of  the 
church  shall  have  skin  if  he  has  to  flay  'em  alive." 

"But — is  she  a  daughter  of  the  church4?"  asked 
the  Probationer.  "And  even  if  she  were,  under  the 
circumstances " 

"What  circumstances?"  demanded  the  interne. 
"Here's  a  poor  girl  burned  and  suffering.  The 
father  is  not  going  to  ask  whether  she's  of  the 
anointed." 

The  Probationer  was  not  sure.  She  liked  doing 
things  in  the  open  and  with  nothing  to  happen  later 
to  make  one  uncomfortable;  but  she  spoke  to  the 
Senior  and  the  Senior  was  willing.  Her  chief  trou- 
ble, after  all,  was  with  the  Avenue  Girl  herself. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  well,"  she  said  wearily  when 
the  thing  was  put  up  to  her.  "What's  the  use4? 
I'd  just  go  back  to  the  same  old  thing;  and  when  it 
got  too  strong  for  me  I'd  end  up  here  again  or  in 
the  morgue." 

"Tell  me  where  your  people  live,  then,  and  let 
me  send  for  them." 

"Why*?  To  have  them  read  in  my  face  what 
I've  been,  and  go  back  home  to  die  of  shame'?" 

The  Probationer  looked  at  the  Avenue  Girl's  face. 


GOD'S  FOOL  195 

______________ , i 

"There — there  is  nothing  in  your  face  to  hurt 
them,"  she  said,  flushing — because  there  were  some 
things  the  Probationer  had  never  discussed,  even 
with  herself.  "You — look  sad.  Honestly,  that's 
all." 

The  Avenue  Girl  held  up  her  thin  right  hand. 
The  forefinger  was  still  yellow  from  cigarettes. 

"What  about  that"?"  she  sneered. 

"If  I  bleach  it  will  you  let  me  send  for  your 
people'?" 

"I'll — perhaps,"  was  the  most  the  Probationer 
could  get. 

Many  people  would  have  been  discouraged. 
Even  the  Senior  was  a  bit  cynical.  It  took  a  Pro- 
bationer still  heartsick  for  home  to  read  in  the 
Avenue  Girl's  eyes  the  terrible  longing  for  the  things 
she  had  given  up — for  home  and  home  folks;  for  a 
clean  slate  again.  The  Probationer  bleached  and 
scrubbed  the  finger,  and  gradually  a  little  of  her 
hopeful  spirit  touched  the  other  girl. 

"What  day  is  it?"  the  Avenue  Girl  asked  once. 

"Friday." 

"That's  baking  day  at  home.  We  bake  in  an  out- 
oven.  Did  you  ever  smell  bread  as  it  comes  from 
an  out-oven?"  Or:  "That's  a  pretty  shade  of  blue 
you  nurses  wear.  It  would  be  nice  for  working  in 
the  dairy,  wouldn't  it5?" 


196 LOVE  STORIES 

"Fine !"  said  the  Probationer,  and  scrubbed  away 
to  hide  the  triumph  in  her  eyes. 


in 

That  was  the  day  the  Dummy  stole  the  parrot. 
The  parrot  belonged  to  the  Girl;  but  how  did  he 
know  it?  So  many  things  he  should  have  known 
the  Dummy  never  learned ;  so  many  things  he  knew 
that  he  seemed  never  to  have  learned !  He  did  not 
know,  for  instance,  of  Father  Feeny  and  the  Holy 
Name  students;  but  he  knew  of  the  Avenue  Girl's 
loneliness  and  heartache,  and  of  the  cabal  against 
her.  It  is  one  of  the  black  marks  on  record  against 
him  that  he  refused  to  polish  the  plate  on  Old  Mag- 
gie's bed,  and  that  he  shook  his  fist  at  her  more  than 
once  when  the  Senior  was  out  of  the  ward. 

And  he  knew  of  the  parrot.  That  day,  then,  a 
short,  stout  woman  with  a  hard  face  appeared  in 
the  superintendent's  office  and  demanded  a  parrot. 

"Parrot?"  said  the  superintendent  blandly. 

"Parrot !  That  crazy  man  you  keep  here  walked 
into  my  house  to-day  and  stole  a  parrot — and  I 
want  it." 

"The  Dummy!     But  what  on  earth " 

"It  was  my  parrot,"  said  the  woman.  "It  be- 
longed to  one  of  my  boarders.  She's  a  burned  case 
up  in  one  of  the  wards — and  she  owed  me  money. 


GOD'S  FOOL 197 

I  took  it  for  a  debt.    You  call  that  man  and  let  him 
look  me  in  the  eye  while  I  say  parrot  to  him." 

"He  cannot  speak  or  hear." 

"You  call  him.     He'll  understand  me !" 

They  found  the  Dummy  coming  stealthily  down 
from  the  top  of  the  stable  and  haled  him  into  the 
office.  He  was  very  calm — quite  impassive.  Ap- 
parently he  had  never  seen  the  woman  before;  as 
she  raged  he  smiled  cheerfully  and  shook  his  head. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  the  superintendent,  "I 
don't  believe  he  ever  saw  the  bird;  but  if  he  has  it 
we  shall  find  it  out  and  you'll  get  it  again." 

They  let  him  go  then ;  and  he  went  to  the  chapel 
and  looked  at  a  dove  above  the  young  John's  head. 
Then  he  went  up  to  the  kitchen  and  filled  his  pockets 
with  lettuce  leaves.  He  knew  nothing  at  all  of 
parrots  or  how  to  care  for  them. 

Things,  you  see,  were  moving  right  for  the  Avenue 
Girl.  The  stain  was  coming  off — she  had  been  fond 
of  the  parrot  and  now  it  was  close  at  hand;  and 
Father  Feeny's  lusty  crowd  stood  ready  to  come  into 
a  hospital  ward  and  shed  skin  that  they  generally 
sacrificed  on  the  football  field.  But  the  Avenue 
Girl  had  two  years  to  account  for — and  there  was 
the  matter  of  an  alibi. 

"I  might  tell  the  folks  at  home  anything  and 
they'd  believe  it  because  they'd  want  to  believe  it," 
said  the  Avenue  Girl.     "But  there's  the  neighbours. 


198 LOVE  STORIES       

I  was  pretty  wild  at  home.  And — there's  a  fellow 
who  wanted  to  marry  me — he  knew  how  sick  I  was 
of  the  old  place  and  how  I  wanted  my  fling.  His 
name  was  Jerry.     We'd  have  to  show  Jerry." 

The  Probationer  worried  a  great  deal  about  this 
matter  of  the  alibi.  It  had  to  be  a  clean  slate  for 
the  folks  back  home,  and  especially  for  Jerry.  She 
took  her  anxieties  out  walking  several  times  on  her 
off-duty,  but  nothing  seemed  to  come  of  it.  She 
walked  on  the  Avenue  mostly,  because  it  was  near 
and  she  could  throw  a  long  coat  over  her  blue  dress. 
And  so  she  happened  to  think  of  the  woman  the 
girl  had  lived  with. 

"She  got  her  into  all  this,"  thought  the  Proba- 
tioner.    "She's  just  got  to  see  her  out." 

It  took  three  days'  off-duty  to  get  her  courage  up 
to  ringing  the  doorbell  of  the  house  with  the  bowed 
shutters,  and  after  she  had  rung  it  she  wanted  very 
much  to  run  and  hide;  but  she  thought  of  the  girl 
and  everything  going  for  nothing  for  the  want  of 
an  alibi,  and  she  stuck.  The  negress  opened  the 
door  and  stared  at  her. 

"She's  dead,  is  she?"  she  asked. 

"No.  May  I  come  in*?  I  want  to  see  your  mis- 
tress." 

The  negress  did  not  admit  her,  however.  She  let 
her  stand  in  the  vestibule  and  went  back  to  the  foot 
of  a  staircase. 


GOD'S  FOOL 199 

"One  of  these  heah  nurses  from  the  hospital!" 
she  said.     "She  wants  to  come  in  and  speak  to  you." 

"Let  her  in,  you  fool !"  replied  a  voice  from  above 
stairs. 

The  rest  was  rather  confused.  Afterward  the 
Probationer  remembered  putting  the  case  to  the  stout 
woman  who  had  claimed  the  parrot  and  finding  it 
difficult  to  make  her  understand. 

"Don't  you  see?"  she  finished  desperately.  "I 
want  her  to  go  home — to  her  own  folks.  She  wants 
it  too.  But  what  are  we  going  to  say  about  these 
last  two  years?" 

The  stout  woman  sat  turning  over  her  rings.  She 
was  most  uncomfortable.  After  all,  what  had  she 
done?  Had  she  not  warned  them  again  and  again 
about  having  lighted  cigarettes  lying  round. 

"She's  in  bad  shape,  is  she?" 

"She  may  recover,  but  she'll  be  badly  scarred — 
not  her  face,  but  her  chest  and  shoulders." 

That  was  another  way  of  looking  at  it.  If  the 
girl  was  scarred 

"Just  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she  asked. 
Now  that  it  was  down  to  brass  tacks  and  no  talk 
about  home  and  mother,  she  was  more  comfortable. 

"If  you  could  just  come  over  to  the  hospital  while 
her  people  are  there  and — and  say  she'd  lived  with 
you  all  the  time " 

"That's  the  truth  all  right!" 


200 LOVE  STORIES 

"And — that  she  worked  for  you,  sewing — she  sews 
very  well,  she  says.  And — oh,  you'll  know  what  to 
say;  that  she's  been — all  right,  you  know;  anything 
to  make  them  comfortable  and  happy." 

Now  the  stout  woman  was  softening — not  that 
she  was  really  hard,  but  she  had  developed  a  sort  of 
artificial  veneer  of  hardness,  and  good  impulses  had 
a  hard  time  crawling  through. 

"I  guess  I  could  do  that  much,",  she  conceded. 
"She  nursed  me  when  I  was  down  and  out  with  the 
grippe  and  that  worthless  nigger  was  drunk  in  the 
kitchen.  But  you  folks  over  there  have  got  a  parrot 
that  belongs  to  me.     What  about  that?" 

The  Probationer  knew  about  the  parrot.  The 
Dummy  had  slipped  it  into  the  ward  more  than 
once  and  its  profanity  had  delighted  the  patients. 
The  Avenue  Girl  had  been  glad  to  see  it  too;  and  as 
it  sat  on  the  bedside  table  and  shrieked  defiance  and 
oaths  the  Dummy  had  smiled  benignly.  John  and 
the  dove — the  girl  and  the  parrot! 

"I  am  sorry  about  the  parrot.  I — perhaps  I  could 
buy  him  from  you." 

She  got  out  her  shabby  little  purse,  in  which  she 
carried  her  munificent  monthly  allowance  of  eight 
dollars  and  a  little  money  she  had  brought  from 
home. 

"Twenty  dollars  takes  him.  That's  what  she 
owed  me." 


GODS  FOOL 201 

The  Probationer  had  seventeen  dollars  and  eleven 
cents.  She  spread  it  out  in  her  lap  and  counted  it 
twice. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  all,"  she  said.  She  had  hoped 
the  second  count  would  show  up  better.  "I  could 
bring  the  rest  next  month." 

The  Probationer  folded  the  money  together  and 
held  it  out.     The  stout  woman  took  it  eagerly. 

"He's  yours,"  she  said  largely.  "Don't  bother 
about  the  balance.    When  do  you  want  me?" 

"I'll  send  you  word,"  said  the  Probationer,  and 
got  up.  She  was  almost  dizzy  with  excitement  and 
the  feeling  of  having  no  money  at  all  in  the  world 
and  a  parrot  she  did  not  want.  She  got  out  into  the 
air  somehow  and  back  to  the  hospital.  She  took  a 
bath  immediately  and  put  on  everything  fresh,  and 
felt  much  better — but  very  poor.  Before  she  went 
on  duty  she  said  a  little  prayer  about  thermometers 
— that  she  should  not  break  hers  until  she  had  money 
for  a  new  one. 

Father  Feeny  came  and  lined  up  six  budding 
priests  outside  the  door  of  the  ward.  He  was  a 
fine  specimen  of  manhood  and  he  had  asked  no  ques- 
tions at  all.  The  Senior  thought  she  had  better  tell 
him  something,  but  he  put  up  a  white  hand. 

"What  does  it  matter,  sister?"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"Yesterday  is  gone  and  to-day  is  a  new  day.     Also 


202  LOVE  STORIES 

there  is  to-morrow" — his  Irish  eyes  twinkled — "and 
a  fine  day  it  will  be  by  the  sunset." 

Then  he  turned  to  his  small  army. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "it's  a  poor  leader  who  is  afraid 
to  take  chances  with  his  men.  I'm  going  first" — 
he  said  fir-rst.  "It's  a  small  thing,  as  I've  told  you 
— a  bit  of  skin  and  it's  over.  Go  in  smiling  and 
come  out  smiling!  Are  you  ready,  sir ?"  This  to 
the  interne. 

That  was  a  great  day  in  the  ward.  The  inmates 
watched  Father  Feeny  and  the  interne  go  behind  the 
screens,  both  smiling,  and  they  watched  the  father 
come  out  very  soon  after,  still  smiling  but  a  little 
bleached.  And  they  watched  the  line  patiently 
waiting  outside  the  door,  shortening  one  by  one. 
After  a  time  the  smiles  were  rather  forced,  as  if 
waiting  was  telling  on  them;  but  there  was  no  de- 
serter— only  one  six-foot  youth,  walking  with  a 
swagger  to  contribute  his  little  half  inch  or  so  of 
cuticle,  added  a  sensation  to  the  general  excitement 
by  fainting  halfway  up  the  ward;  and  he  remained 
in  blissful  unconsciousness  until  it  was  all  over. 

Though  the  interne  had  said  there  was  no  way 
back,  the  first  step  had  really  been  taken;  and  he 
was  greatly  pleased  with  himself  and  with  every- 
body because  it  had  been  his  idea.  The  Probationer 
tried  to  find  a  chance  to  thank  him ;  and,  failing  that, 
she  sent  a  grateful  little  note  to  his  room : 


GODS  FOOL 203 

Is  Mimi  the  Austrian  to  have  a  baked  apple? 

[Signed]  Ward  A. 

P.S. — It  went  through  wonderfully!  She  is  so 
cheerful  since  it  is  over.  How  can  I  ever  thank 
you? 

The  reply  came  back  very  quickly : 

Baked  apple,  without  milk,  for  Mimi.     Ward  A. 

'  [Signed]         D.  L.  S. 

P.  S. — Can  you  come  up  on  the  roof  for  a  little 
air? 

She  hesitated  over  that  for  some  time.  A  really 
honest-to-goodness  nurse  may  break  a  rule  now  and 
then  and  nothing  happen;  but  a  probationer  is  only 
on  trial  and  has  to  be  exceedingly  careful — though 
any  one  might  go  to  the  roof  and  watch  the  sunset. 
She  decided  not  to  go.  Then  she  pulled  her  soft  hair 
down  over  her  forehead,  where  it  was  most  becoming, 
and  fastened  it  with  tiny  hairpins,  and  went  up 
after  all — not  because  she  intended  to,  but  because 
as  she  came  out  of  her  room  the  elevator  was  going 
up — not  down.  She  was  on  the  roof  almost  before 
she  knew  it. 

The  interne  was  there  in  fresh  white  ducks,  smok- 
ing.    At  first  they  talked  of  skin  grafting  and  the 


204  LOVE  STORIES 

powder  that  had  not  done  what  was  expected  of  it. 
After  a  time,  when  the  autumn  twilight  had  fallen 
on  them  like  a  benediction,  she  took  her  courage  in 
her  hands  and  told  of  her  visit  to  the  house  on  the 
Avenue,  and  about  the  parrot  and  the  plot. 

The  interne  stood  very  still.  He  was  young  and 
intolerant.  Some  day  he  would  mellow  and  accept 
life  as  it  is — not  as  he  would  have  it.  When  she 
had  finished  he  seemed  to  have  drawn  himself  into 
a  shell,  turtle  fashion,  and  huddled  himself  together. 
The  shell  was  pride  and  old  prejudice  and  the  intol- 
erance of  youth.  "She  had  to  have  an  alibi!"  said 
the  Probationer. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  very  stiffly. 

"I  cannot  see  why  you  disapprove.  Something 
had  to  be  done." 

"I  cannot  see  that  you  had  to  do  it;  but  it's  your 
own  affair,  of  course.     Only " 

"Please  go  on." 

"Well,  one  cannot  touch  dirt  without  being 
soiled." 

"I  think  you  will  be  sorry  you  said  that,"  said 
the  Probationer  stiffly.  And  she  went  down  the 
staircase,  leaving  him  alone.  He  was  sorry,  of 
course;  but  he  would  not  say  so  even  to  himself.  He 
thought  of  the  Probationer,  with  her  eager  eyes  and 
shining  hair  and  her  warm  little  heart,  ringing  the 
bell  of  the  Avenue  house  and  making  her  plea — and 


GOD'S  FOOL 205 

his  blood  ran  hot  in  him.  It  was  just  then  that  the 
parrot  spoke  on  the  other  side  of  the  chimney. 

"Gimme  a  bottle  of  beer!"  it  said.  "Nice  cold 
beer!     Cold  beer!" 

The  interne  walked  furiously  toward  the  sound. 
Must  this  girl  of  the  streets  and  her  wretched  asso- 
ciates follow  him  everywhere?  She  had  ruined  his 
life  already.  He  felt  that  it  was  ruined.  Probably 
the  Probationer  would  never  speak  to  him  again. 

The  Dummy  was  sitting  on  a  bench,  with  the  par- 
rot on  his  knee  looking  rather  queer  from  being 
smuggled  about  under  a  coat  and  fed  the  curious 
things  that  the  Dummy  thought  a  bird  should  eat. 
It  had  a  piece  of  apple  pie  in  its  claw  now. 

"Cold  beer  I"  said  the  parrot,  and  eyed  the  interne 
crookedly. 

The  Dummy  had  not  heard  him,  of  course.  He 
sat  looking  over  the  parapet  toward  the  river,  with 
one  knotted  hand  smoothing  the  bird's  ruffled  plu- 
mage and  such  a  look  of  wretchedness  in  his  eyes 
that  it  hurt  to  see  it.  God's  fools,  who  cannot  rea- 
son, can  feel.  Some  instinct  of  despair  had  seized 
him  for  its  own — some  conception,  perhaps,  of  what 
life  would  never  mean  to  him.  Before  it,  the  in- 
terne's  wrath  gave  way  to  impotency. 

"Cold  beer!"  said  the  parrot  wickedly. 


206  LOVE  STORIES 

IV 

The  Avenue  Girl  improved  slowly.  Morning  and 
evening  came  the  Dummy  and  smiled  down  at  her, 
with  reverence  in  his  eyes.  She  could  smile  back 
now  and  sometimes  she  spoke  to  him.  There  was  a 
change  in  the  Avenue  Girl.  She  was  less  sullen. 
In  the  back  of  her  eyes  each  morning  found  a  glow 
of  hope — that  died,  it  is  true,  by  noontime;  but  it 
came  again  with  the  new  day. 

"How's  Polly  this  morning,  Montmorency*?"  she 
would  say,  and  give  him  a  bit  of  toast  from  her 
breakfast  for  the  bird.  Or:  "I  wish  you  could  talk, 
Reginald.  I'd  like  to  hear  what  Rose  said  when 
you  took  the  parrot.     It  must  have  been  a  scream !" 

He  brought  her  the  first  chrysanthemums  of  the 
fall  and  laid  them  on  her  pillow.  It  was  after  he 
had  gone,  while  the  Probationer  was  combing  out 
the  soft  short  curls  of  her  hair,  that  she  mentioned 
the  Dummy.  She  strove  to  make  her  voice  steady, 
but  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"The  old  goat's  been  pretty  good  to  me,  hasn't 
he*?"  she  said. 

"I  believe  it'  is  very  unusual.  I  wonder" — the 
Probationer  poised  the  comb — "perhaps  you  remind 
him  of  some  one  he  used  to  know." 

They  knew  nothing,  of  course,  of  the  boy  John 
and  the  window. 


_ GOD'S  FOOL 207 

"He's  about  the  first  decent  man  I  ever  knew," 
said  the  Avenue  Girl — "and  he's  a  fool !" 

"Either  a  fool  or  very,  very  wise,"  replied  the 
Probationer. 

The  interne  and  the  Probationer  were  good 
friends  again,  but  they  had  never  quite  got  back 
to  the  place  they  had  lost  on  the  roof.  Over  the 
Avenue  Girl's  dressing  their  eyes  met  sometimes, 
and  there  was  an  appeal  in  the  man's  and  tenderness ; 
but  there  was  pride  too.  He  would  not  say  he  had 
not  meant  it.  Any  man  will  tell  you  that  he  was 
entirely  right,  and  that  she  had  been  most  unwise 
and  needed  a  good  scolding — only,  of  course,  it  is 
never  the  wise  people  who  make  life  worth  the 
living. 

And  an  important  thing  had  happened — the  Pro- 
bationer had  been  accepted  and  had  got  her  cap. 
She  looked  very  stately  in  it,  though  it  generally  had 
a  dent  somewhere  from  her  forgetting  she  had  it  on 
and  putting  her  hat  on  over  it.  The  first  day  she 
wore  it  she  knelt  at  prayers  with  the  others,  and 
said  a  little  Thank  You !  for  getting  through  when 
she  was  so  unworthy.  She  asked  to  be  made  clean 
and  pure,  and  delivered  from  vanity,  and  of  some 
use  in  the  world.  And,  trying  to  think  of  the  things 
she  had  been  remiss  in,  she  went  out  that  night  in 
a  rain  and  bought  some  seed  and  things  for  the 
parrot. 


208 LOVE  STORIES 

Prodigal  as  had  been  Father  Feeny  and  his  bat- 
talion, there  was  more  grafting  needed  before  the 
Avenue  Girl  could  take  her  scarred  body  and  soul 
out  into  the  world  again.  The  Probationer  offered, 
but  was  refused  politely. 

"You  are  a  part  of  the  institution  now,"  said 
the  interne,  with  his  eyes  on  her  cap.  He  was  rather 
afraid  of  the  cap.  "I  cannot  cripple  the  institu- 
tion." 

It  was  the  Dummy  who  solved  that  question. 
No  one  knew  how  he  knew  the  necessity  or  why  he 
had  not  come  forward  sooner;  but  come  he  did  and 
would  not  be  denied.  The  interne  went  to  a  mem- 
ber of  the  staff  about  it. 

"The  fellow  works  round  the  house,"  he  ex- 
plained; "but  he's  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  girl 
and  I  hardly  know  what  to  do." 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  the  staff,  "one  of  the  greatest 
joys  in  the  world  is  to  suffer  for  a  woman.  Let  him 
go  to  it." 

So  the  Dummy  bared  his  old-young  arm — not 
once,  but  many  times.  Always  as  the  sharp  razor 
nicked  up  its  bit  of  skin  he  looked  at  the  girl  and 
smiled.  In  the  early  evening  he  perched  the  parrot 
on  his  bandaged  arm  and  sat  on  the  roof  or  by  the 
fountain  in  the  courtyard.  When  the  breeze  blew 
strong  enough  the  water  flung  over  the  rim  and  made 
little  puddles  in  the  hollows  of  the  cement  pavement. 


GOD'S  FOOL  209 

Here  belated  sparrows  drank  or  splashed  their  dusty- 
feathers,  and  the  parrot  watched  them  crookedly. 

The  Avenue  Girl  grew  better  with  each  day,  but 
remained  wistful-eyed.  The  ward  no  longer  avoided 
her,  though  she  was  never  one  of  them.  One  day 
the  Probationer  found  a  new  baby  in  the  children's 
ward ;  and,  with  the  passion  of  maternity  that  is  the 
real  reason  for  every  good  woman's  being,  she  cud- 
dled the  mite  in  her  arms.  She  visited  the  nurses  in 
the  different  wards. 

"Just  look!"  she  would  say,  opening  her  arms. 
"If  I  could  only  steal  it!" 

"The  Senior,  who  had  once  been  beautiful  and  was 
now  calm  and  placid,  smiled  at  her.  Old  Maggie 
must  peer  and  cry  out  over  the  child.  Irish  Delia 
must  call  down  a  blessing  on  it.  And  so  up  the 
ward  to  the  Avenue  Girl;  the  Probationer  laid  the 
baby  in  her  arms. 

"Just  a  minute,"  she  explained.  "I'm  idling  and 
I  have  no  business  to.  Hold  it  until  I  give  the 
three  o'clocks."  Which  means  the  three-o'clock 
medicines. 

When  she  came  back  the  Avenue  Girl  had  a  new 
look  in  her  eyes;  and  that  day  the  little  gleam  of 
hope,  that  usually  died,  lasted  and  grew. 

At  last  came  the  day  when  the  alibi  was  to  be 
brought  forward.  The  girl  had  written  home  and 
the  home  folks  were  coming.     In  his  strange  way 


210 LOVE  STORIES 

the  Dummy  knew  that  a  change  was  near.  The 
kaleidoscope  would  shift  again  and  the  Avenue  Girl 
would  join  the  changing  and  disappearing  figures 
that  fringed  the  inner  circle  of  his  heart. 

One  night  he  did  not  go  to  bed  in  the  ward  bed 
that  was  his  only  home,  beside  the  little  stand  that 
held  his  only  possessions.  The  watchman  missed 
him  and  found  him  asleep  in  the  chapel  in  one  of 
the  seats,  with  the  parrot  drowsing  on  the  altar. 

Rose — who  was  the  stout  woman — came  early. 
She  wore  a  purple  dress,  with  a  hat  to  match,  and 
purple  gloves.  The  ward  eyed  her  with  scorn  and 
a  certain  deference.  She  greeted  the  Avenue  Girl 
effusively  behind  the  screens  that  surrounded  the 
bed. 

"Well,  you  do  look  pinched!"  she  said.  "Ain't 
it  a  mercy  it  didn't  get  to  your  face !  Pretty  well 
chewed  up,  aren't  you?" 

"Do  you  want  to  see  it*?" 

"Good  land!  No!  Now  look  here,  you've  got 
to  put  me  wise  or  I'll  blow  the  whole  thing.  What's 
my  little  stunt*?  The  purple's  all  right  for  it,  isn't 
it?" 

"All  you  need  to  do,"  said  the  Avenue  Girl  wea- 
rily, "is  to  say  that  I've  been  sewing  for  you  since  I 
came  to  the  city.  And — if  you  can  say  anything 
good " 

"I'll  do  that  all  right,"  Rose  affirmed.     She  put 


GOD'S  FOOL 211 

a  heavy  silver  bag  on  the  bedside  table  and  lowered 
herself  into  a  chair.  "You  leave  it  to  me,  dearie. 
There  ain't  anything  I  won't  say." 

The  ward  was  watching  with  intense  interest.  Old 
Maggie,  working  the  creaking  bandage  machine,  was 
palpitating  with  excitement.  From  her  chair  by  the 
door  she  could  see  the  elevator  and  it  was  she  who 
announced  the  coming  of  destiny. 

"Here  comes  the  father,"  she  confided  to  the  end 
of  the  ward.     "Guess  the  mother  couldn't  come." 

It  was  not  the  father  though.  It  was  a  young  man 
who  hesitated  in  the  doorway,  hat  in  hand — a  tall 
young  man,  with  a  strong  and  not  unhandsome  face. 
The  Probationer,  rather  twitchy  from  excitement 
and  anxiety,  felt  her  heart  stop  and  race  on  again. 
Jerry,  without  a  doubt ! 

The  meeting  was  rather  constrained.  The  girl 
went  whiter  than  her  pillows  and  half  closed  her 
eyes;  but  Rose,  who  would  have  been  terrified  at 
the  sight  of  an  elderly  farmer,  was  buoyantly  re- 
lieved and  at  her  ease. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Jerry.  "I — we  didn't  realise  it 
had  been  so  bad.  The  folks  are  well ;  but — I  thought 
I'd  better  come.    They're  expecting  you  back  home." 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  come,"  said  the  girl,  avoid- 
ing his  eyes.    "I — I'm  getting  along  fine." 

"I  guess  introductions  ain't  necessary,"  put  in 
Rose  briskly.     "I'm  Mrs.  Sweeney.    She's  been  liv- 


212  LOVE  STORIES 

ing  with  me — working  for  me,  sewing.  She's  sure  a 
fine  sewer !    She  made  this  suit  I'm  wearing." 

Poor  Rose,  with  "custom  made"  on  every  seam  of 
the  purple!  But  Jerry  was  hardly  listening.  His 
eyes  were  on  the  girl  among  the  pillows. 

"I  see,"  said  Jerry  slowly.  "You  haven't  said  yet, 
Elizabeth.    Are  you  going  home?" 

"If — they  want  me." 

"Of  course  they  want  you!"  Again  Rose:  "Why 
shouldn't  they?  You've  been  a  good  girl  and  a 
credit  to  any  family.  If  they  say  anything  mean 
to  you  you  let  me  know." 

"They'll  not  be  mean  to  her,  I'm  sure  they'll 
want  to  write  and  thank  you.  If  you'll  just  give 
me  your  address,  Mrs.  Sweeney " 

He  had  a  pencil  poised  over  a  notebook.  Rose 
hesitated.  Then  she  gave  her  address  on  the  Avenue, 
with  something  of  bravado  in  her  voice.  After  ail, 
what  could  this  country-store  clerk  know  of  the  Ave- 
nue*?   Jerry  wrote  it  down  carefully. 

"Sweeney — with  an  e?"  he  asked  politely. 

"With  three  e's,"  corrected  Rose,  and  got  up  with 
dignity. 

"Well,  good-bye,  dearie,"  she  said.  "You've  got 
your  friends  now  and  you  don't  need  me.  I  guess 
you've  had  your  lesson  about  going  to  sleep  with  a 
cig — about  being  careless  with  fire.  Drop  me  a  pos- 
tal when  you  get  the  time." 


GOD'S  FOOL 213 

She  shook  hands  with  Jerry  and  rustled  and  jin- 
gled down  the  ward,  her  chin  well  up.  At  the  door 
she  encountered  Old  Maggie,  her  arms  full  of  band- 
ages. 

"How's  the  Avenue*?"  asked  Old  Maggie. 

Rose,  however,  like  all  good  actresses,  was  still  in 
the  part  as  she  made  her  exit.  She  passed  Old  Mag- 
gie unheeding,  severe  respectability  in  every  line  of 
her  figure,  every  nod  of  her  purple  plumes.  She 
was  still  in  the  part  when  she  encountered  the  Pro- 
bationer. 

"It's  going  like  a  house  afire !"  she  said.  "He  swal- 
lowed it  all — hook  and  bait !  And — oh,  yes,  I've  got 
something  for  you."  She  went  down  into  her  silver 
bag  and  pulled  out  a  roll  of  bills.  "I've  felt  mean- 
er'n  a  dog  every  time  I've  thought  of  you  buying 
that  parrot.  I've  got  a  different  view  of  life — may- 
be— from  yours;  but  I'm  not  taking  candy  from  a 
baby." 

When  the  Probationer  could  speak  Rose  was  tak- 
ing herself  and  the  purple  into  the  elevator  and  wav- 
ing her  a  farewell. 

"Good-bye!"  she  said.  "If  ever  you  get  stuck 
again  just  call  on  me." 

With  Rose's  departure  silence  fell  behind  the 
screen.    The  girl  broke  it  first. 

"They're  all  well,  are  they?" 

"All  well.     Your  mother's  been  khd  of  poorly. 


214  LOVE  STORIES 

She  thought  you'd  write  to  her."  The  girl  clenched 
her  hands  under  the  bedclothing.  She  could  not 
speak  just  then.  "There's  nothing  much  happened. 
The  post  office  burned  down  last  summer.  They're 
building  a  new  one.  And — I've  been  building.  I 
tore  down  the  old  place." 

"Are  you  going  to  be  married,  Jerry?" 

"Some  day,  I  suppose.  I'm  not  worrying  about 
it.  It  was  something  to  do;  it  kept  me  from — think- 
ing." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  and  something  gripped 
her  throat.  He  knew !  Rose  might  have  gone  down 
with  her  father,  but  Jerry  knew !  Nothing  was  any 
use.  She  knew  his  rigid  morality,  his  country-bred 
horror  of  the  thing  she  was.  She  would  have  to  go 
back — to  Rose  and  the  others.  He  would  never 
take  her  home. 

Down  at  the  medicine  closet  the  Probationer  was 
carbolising  thermometers  and  humming  a  little  song. 
Everything  was  well.  The  Avenue  Girl  was  with 
her  people  and  at  seven  o'clock  the  Probationer  was 
going  to  the  roof — to  meet  some  one  who  was  sin- 
cerely repentant  and  very  meek. 

In  the  convalescent  ward  next  door  they  were 
singing  softly — one  of  those  spontaneous  outbursts 
that  have  their  origin  in  the  hearts  of  people  and  a 
melody  all  their  own: 


GOD'S  FOOL  215 

'Way  down  upon  de  S'wanee  Ribber, 

Far,  far  away, 
Dere's  wha  my  heart  is  turnirt  ebber* — 

Dere's  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 

It  penetrated  back  of  the  screen,  where  the  girl 
lay  in  white  wretchedness — and  where  Jerry,  with 
death  in  his  eyes,  sat  rigid  in  his  chair. 

"Jerry?' 

"Yes." 

"I — I  guess  Pve  been  pretty  far  away." 

"Don't  tell  me  about  it !"    A  cry,  this. 

"You  used  to  care  for  me,  Jerry.  I'm  not  ex- 
pecting that  now;  but  if  you'd  only  believe  me  when 
I  say  I'm  sorry " 

"I  believe  you,  Elizabeth." 

"One  of  the  nurses  here  says Jerry,  won't  you 

look  at  me?"  With  some  difficulty  he  met  her  eyes. 
"She  says  that  because  one  starts  wrong  one  needn't 
go  wrong  always.  I  was  ashamed  to  write.  She 
made  me  do  it." 

She  held  out  an  appealing  hand,  but  he  did  not 
take  it.  All  his  life  he  had  built  up  a  house  of  mo- 
rality. Now  his  house  was  crumbling  and  he  stood 
terrified  in  the  wreck.  "It  isn't  only  because  I've 
been  hurt  that  I — am  sorry,"  she  went  on.  "I 
loathed  it !  I'd  have  finished  it  all  long  ago,  only — 
I  was  afraid." 


216 LOVE  STORIES 

"I  would  rather  have  found  you  dead !" 

There  is  a  sort  of  anesthesia  of  misery.  After  a 
certain  amount  of  suffering  the  brain  ceases  to  feel. 
Jerry  watched  the  white  curtain  of  the  screen  sway- 
ing in  the  wind,  settled  his  collar,  glanced  at  his 
watch.  He  was  quite  white.  The  girl's  hand  still 
lay  on  the  coverlet.  Somewhere  back  in  the  numbed 
brain  that  would  think  only  little  thoughts  he  knew 
that  if  he  touched  that  small,  appealing  hand  the 
last  wall  of  his  house  would  fall. 

It  was  the  Dummy,  after  all,  who  settled  that  for 
him.  He  came  with  his  afternoon  offering  of 
cracked  ice  just  then  and  stood  inside  the  screen, 
staring.  Perhaps  he  had  known  all  along  how  it 
would  end,  that  this,  his  saint,  would  go — and  not 
alone — to  join  the  vanishing  circle  that  had  ringed 
the  inner  circle  of  his  heart.  Just  at  the  time  it 
rather  got  him.  He  swayed  a  little  and  clutched  at 
the  screen;  but  the  next  moment  he  had  placed  the 
bowl  on  the  stand  and  stood  smiling  down  at  the  girl. 

"The  only  person  in  the  world  who  believes  in 
me !"  said  the  girl  bitterly.     "And  he's  a  fool !" 

The  Dummy  smiled  into  her  eyes.  In  his  faded, 
childish  eyes  there  was  the  eternal  sadness  of  his 
kind,  eternal  tenderness,  and  the  blur  of  one  who  has 
looked  much  into  a  far  distance.  Suddenly  he  bene' 
over  and  placed  the  man's  hand  over  the  girl's. 


GOD'S  FOOL 217 

The  last  wall  was  down!  Jerry  buried  his  face 
in  the  white  coverlet. 

The  interne  was  pacing  the  roof  anxiously. 
Golden  sunset  had  faded  to  lavender — to  dark 
purple — to  night. 

The  Probationer  came  up  at  last — not  a  proba- 
tioner now,  of  course;  but  she  had  left  off  her  cap 
and  was  much  less  stately. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  explained;  "but  I've  been  ter- 
ribly busy.    It  went  off  so  well !" 

"Of  course — if  you  handled  it." 

"You  know — don't  you*? — it  was  the  lover  who 
came.  He  looks  so  strong  and  good — oh,  she  is  safe 
now!" 

"That's  fine!"  said  the  interne  absently.  They 
were  sitting  on  the  parapet  now  and  by  sliding  his 
hand  along  he  found  her  fingers.  "Isn't  it  a  glo- 
rious evening?'  He  had  the  fingers  pretty  close  by 
that  time ;  and  suddenly  gathering  them  up  he  lifted 
the  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Such  a  kind  little  hand !"  he  said  over  it.  "Such 
a  dear,  tender  little  hand!  My  hand!"  he  said, 
rather  huskily. 

Down  in  the  courtyard  the  Dummy  sat  with  the 
parrot  on  his  knee.  At  his  feet  the  superintendent's 
dog  lay  on  his  side  and  dreamed  of  battle.     The 


218 LOVE  STORIES 

Dummy's  eyes  lingered  on  the  scar  the  Avenue  Girl 
had  bandaged — how  long  ago! 

His  eyes  wandered  to  the  window  with  the  young 
John  among  the  lilies.  In  the  stable  were  still  the 
ambulance  horses  that  talked  to  him  without  words. 
And  he  had  the  parrot.  If  he  thought  at  all  it  was 
that  his  Father  was  good  and  that,  after  all,  he  was 
not  alone.  The  parrot  edged  along  his  knee  and 
eyed  him  with  saturnine  affection. 


THE  MIRACLE 


THE  MIRACLE 


BIG  MARY  was  sweeping  the  ward  with  a 
broom  muffled  in  a  white  bag.  In  the  breeze 
from  the  open  windows,  her  blue  calico  wrapper 
ballooned  about  her  and  made  ludicrous  her  frantic 
thrusts  after  the  bits  of  fluff  that  formed  eddies 
under  the  beds  and  danced  in  the  spring  air. 

She  finished  her  sweeping,  and,  with  the  joyous 
scraps  captured  in  her  dust-pan,  stood  in  the  door- 
way, critically  surveying  the  ward.  It  was  bril- 
liantly clean  and  festive;  on  either  side  a  row  of 
beds,  fresh  white  for  the  day;  on  the  centre  table 
a  vase  of  Easter  lilies,  and  on  the  record-table  near 
the  door  a  potted  hyacinth.  The  Nurse  herself  wore 
a  bunch  of  violets  tucked  in  her  apron-band.  One 
of  the  patients  had  seen  the  Junior  Medical  give 
them  to  her.  The  Eastern  sun,  shining  across  the 
beds,  made  below  them,  on  the  polished  floor,  black 
islands  of  shadow  in  a  gleaming  sea  of  light. 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  rocking  in  chairs  or 
standing  at  windows,  enjoying  the  Sunday  respite 
from  sewing  or  the  bandage-machine,  women,  gro- 
tesque and  distorted  of  figure,  in  attitudes  of  weari- 

221 


222 LOVE  STORIES 

ness  and  expectancy,  with  patient  eyes  awaited  their 
crucifixion.  Behind  them,  in  the  beds,  a  dozen  per- 
haps who  had  come  up  from  death  and  held  the 
miracle  in  their  arms. 

The  miracles  were  small  and  red,  and  inclined  to 
feeble  and  ineffectual  wrigglings.  Fists  were  thrust 
in  the  air  and  brought  down  on  smiling,  pale  mother 
faces.  With  tight-closed  eyes  and  open  mouths, 
each  miracle  squirmed  and  nuzzled  until  the  mother 
would  look  with  pleading  eyes  at  the  Nurse.  And 
the  Nurse  would  look  severe  and  say: 

"Good  gracious,  Annie  Petowski,  surely  you  don't 
want  to  feed  that  infant  again!  Do  you  want  the 
child  to  have  a  dilated  stomach?" 

Fear  of  that  horrible  and  mysterious  condition,  a 
dilated  stomach,  would  restrain  Annie  Petowski  or 
Jennie  Goldstein  or  Maggie  McNamara  for  a  time. 
With  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  she  would  give  the 
child  her  finger  to  suck — a  finger  so  white,  so  clean, 
so  soft  in  the  last  week  that  she  was  lost  in  admira- 
tion of  it.  And  the  child  would  take  hold,  all  its 
small  body  set  rigid  in  lines  of  desperate  effort. 
Then  it  would  relax  suddenly,  and  spew  out  the 
finger,  and  the  quiet  hospital  air  would  be  rent  with 
shrieks  of  lost  illusion.  Then  Annie  Petowski  or 
Jennie  Goldstein  or  Maggie  McNamara  would 
watch  the  Nurse  with  open  hostility  and  defiance, 
and  her  rustling  exit  from  the  ward  would  be  fol- 


THE  MIRACLE  223 

lowed  by  swift  cessation  of  cries,  and,  close  to  Annie 
or  Jennie  or  Maggie's  heart,  there  would  be  small 
ecstatic  gurglings — and  peace. 

In  her  small  domain  the  Nurse  was  queen.  From 
her  throne  at  the  record-table,  she  issued  proclama- 
tions of  baths  and  fine  combs,  of  clean  bedding  and 
trimmed  nails,  of  tea  and  toast,  of  regular  hours  for 
the  babies.  From  this  throne,  also,  she  directed  peri- 
odic searches  of  the  bedside  stands,  unearthing 
scraps  of  old  toast,  decaying  fruit,  candy,  and  an 
occasional  cigarette.  From  the  throne,  too,  she  sent 
daily  a  blue-wrappered  and  pig-tailed  brigade  to 
the  kitchen,  armed  with  knives,  to  attack  the  dinner 
potatoes. 

But  on  this  Easter  morning,  the  queen  looked 
tired  and  worn.  Her  crown,  a  starched  white  cap, 
had  slipped  back  on  her  head,  and  her  blue-and- 
white  dress  was  stained  and  spotted.  Even  her 
fresh  apron  and  sleevelets  did  not  quite  conceal  the 
damage.  She  had  come  in  for  a  moment  at  the 
breakfast  hour,  and  asked  the  Swede,  Ellen  Oilman, 
to  serve  the  breakfast  for  her;  and  at  half  past  eight 
she  had  appeared  again  for  a  moment,  and  had 
turned  down  one  of  the  beds  and  put  hot-water  bot- 
tles in  it. 

The  ward  ate  little  breakfast.  It  was  always  ner- 
vous when  a  case  was  "on."    Excursions  down  the 


224 LOVE  STORIES 

corridor  by  one  or  another  of  the  blue-wrappered 
brigade  brought  back  bits  of  news : 

"The  doctor  is  smoking  a  cigarette  in  the  hall;" 
or,  "Miss  Jones,  the  day  assistant,  has  gone  in;"  and 
then,  with  bated  breath,  "The  doctor  with  the  red 
mustache  has  come" — by  which  it  was  known  that 
things  were  going  badly,  the  staff  man  having  been 
summoned. 

Suggestions  of  Easter  began  to  appear  even  in 
this  isolated  ward,  denied  to  all  visitors  except  an 
occasional  husband,  who  was  usually  regarded  with 
a  mixture  of  contempt  and  scepticism  by  the  other 
women.  But  now  the  lilies  came,  and  after  them  a 
lame  young  woman  who  played  the  organ  in  the 
chapel  on  Sundays,  and  who  afterward  went  from 
ward  to  ward,  singing  little  songs  and  accompanying 
herself  on  the  mandolin  she  carried  with  her.  The 
lame  young  woman  seated  herself  in  the  throne- 
chair  and  sang  an  Easter  anthem,  and  afterward 
limped  around  and  placed  a  leaflet  and  a  spray  of 
lilies-of-the-valley  on  each  bedside  stand. 

She  was  escorted  around  the  ward  by  Elizabeth 
Miller,  known  as  "Liz"  in  Our  Alley,  and  rechris- 
tened  Elizabeth  by  the  Nurse.  Elizabeth  always 
read  the  tracts.  She  had  been  there  four  times,  and 
knew  all  the  nurses  and  nearly  all  the  doctors.  "Liz" 
had  been  known,  in  a  shortage  of  nurses,  to  be  called 
into  the  mysterious  room  down  the  hall  to  assist; 


THE  MIRACLE 225 

and  on  those  occasions,  in  an  all-enveloping  white 
gown  over  her  wrapper,  with  her  hair  under  a  cap, 
she  outranked  the  queen  herself  in  regalness  and 
authority. 

The  lame  mandolin-player  stopped  at  the  foot 
of  the  empty  bed.  "Shall  I  put  one  here*?"  she 
asked,  fingering  a  tract. 

Liz  meditated  majestically. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  would/'  she  said.  "Not  that 
it'll  do  any  good." 

"Why?' 

Liz  jerked  her  head  toward  the  corridor. 

"She's  not  getting  on  very  well,"  she  said;  "and, 
even  if  she  gets  through,  she  won't  read  the  tract. 
She  held  her  fingers  in  her  ears  last  Sunday  while  the 
Bible-reader  was  here.  She's  young.  Says  she 
hopes  she  and  the  kid'll  both  die." 

The  mandolin-player  was  not  unversed  in  the 
psychology  of  the  ward. 

"Then  she — isn't  married?"  she  asked,  and  be- 
cause she  was  young,  she  flushed  painfully. 

Liz  stared  at  her,  and  a  faint  light  of  amusement 
dawned  in  her  eyes. 

"Well,  no,"  she  admitted;  "I  guess  that's  what's 
worrying  her.  She's  a  fool,  she  is.  She  can  put  the 
kid  in  a  home.  That's  what  I  do.  Suppose  she  mar- 
ried the  fellow  that  got  her  into  trouble?  Wouldn't 
he  be  always  throwing  it  up  to  her?" 


226 LQVE  STORIES 

The  mandolin-player  looked  at  Liz,  puzzled  at 
this  new  philosophy  of  life. 

"Have — have  you  a  baby  here'?"  she  asked  tim- 
idly. 

"Have  I!"  said  Liz,  and,  wheeling,  led  the  way 
to  her  bed.  She  turned  the  blanket  down  with  a 
practised  hand,  revealing  a  tiny  red  atom,  so  like 
the  others  that  only  mother  love  could  have  distin- 
guished it. 

"This  is  mine,"  she  said  airily.  "Funny  little 
mutt,  isn't  he*?" 

The  mandolin-player  gazed  diffidently  at  the 
child. 

"He — he's  very  little,"  she  said. 

"Little !"  said  Liz.  "He  holds  the  record  here  for 
the  last  six  months — eleven  pounds  three  ounces  in 
his  skin,  when  he  arrived.    The  little  devil!" 

She  put  the  blanket  tenderly  back  over  the  little 
devil's  sleeping  form.  The  mandolin-player  cast 
about  desperately  for  the  right  thing  to  say. 

"Does — does  he  look  like  his  father'?"  she  asked 
timidly.  But  apparently  Liz  did  not  hear.  She  had 
moved  down  the  ward.  The  mandolin-player  heard 
only  a  snicker  from  Annie  Petowski's  bed,  and, 
vaguely  uncomfortable,  she  moved  toward  the  door. 

Liz  was  turning  down  the  cover  of  the  empty 
bed,  and  the  Nurse,  with  tired  but  shining  eyes,  was 
wheeling  in  the  operating  table. 


THE  MIRACLE  227 

The  mandolin-player  stepped  aside  to  let  the 
table  pass.  From  the  blankets  she  had  a  glimpse 
of  a  young  face,  bloodless  and  wan — of  hurt,  defiant 
blue  eyes.  She  had  never  before  seen  life  so  naked, 
so  relentless.  She  shrank  back  against  the  wall,  a 
little  sick.  Then  she  gathered  up  her  tracts  and  her 
mandolin,  and  limped  down  the  hall. 

The  door  of  the  mysterious  room  was  open,  and 
from  it  came  a  shrill,  high  wail,  a  rising  and  falling 
note  of  distress — the  voice  of  a  new  soul  in  protest. 
She  went  past  with  averted  face. 

Back  in  the  ward  Liz  leaned  over  the  table  and, 
picking  the  girl  up  bodily,  deposited  her  tenderly 
in  the  warm  bed.  Then  she  stood  back  and  smiled 
down  at  her,  with  her  hands  on  her  hips. 

"Well,"  she  said  kindly,  "it's  over,  and  here  you 
are!    But  it's  no  picnic,  is  it*?" 

The  girl  on  the  bed  turned  her  head  away.  The 
coarsening  of  her  features  in  the  last  month  or  two 
had  changed  to  an  almost  bloodless  refinement. 
With  her  bright  hair,  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
through  the  furnace  of  pain  and  had  come  out  pure 
gold.    But  her  eyes  were  hard. 

"Go  away,"  she  said  petulantly. 

Liz  leaned  down  and  pulled  the  blanket  over  her 
shoulders. 

"You  sleep  now,"  she  said  soothingly.  "When 
you  wake  up  you  can  have  a  cup  of  tea." 


228  LOVE  STORIES 

The  girl  threw  the  cover  off  and  looked  up  de- 
spairingly into  Liz's  face. 

"I  don't  want  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "My  God,  Liz, 
it's  going  to  live  and  so  am  I!" 


ii 

Now,  the  Nurse  had  been  up  all  night,  and  at 
noon,  after  she  had  oiled  the  new  baby  and  washed 
out  his  eyes  and  given  him  a  teaspoonful  of  warm 
water,  she  placed  Liz  in  charge  of  the  ward,  and 
went  to  her  room  to  put  on  a  fresh  uniform. 
The  first  thing  she  did,  when  she  got  there,  was  to 
go  to  the  mirror,  with  the  picture  of  her  mother 
tucked  in  its  frame,  and  survey  herself.  When  she 
saw  her  cap  and  the  untidiness  of  her  hair  and  her 
white  collar  all  spotted,  she  frowned. 

Then  she  took  the  violets  out  of  her  belt  and  put 
them  carefully  in  a  glass  of  water,  and  feeling  rather 
silly,  she  leaned  over  and  kissed  them.  After  that 
she  felt  better. 

She  bathed  her  face  in  hot  water  and  then  in  cold, 
which  brought  her  colour  back,  and  she  put  on  every- 
thing fresh,  so  that  she  rustled  with  each  step,  which 
is  proper  for  trained  nurses;  and  finally  she  tucked 
the  violets  back  where  they  belonged,  and  put  on  a 
new  cap,  which  is  also  proper  for  trained  nurses  on 
gala  occasions. 


THE  MIRACLE 229 

If  she  had  not  gone  back  to  the  mirror  to  see  that 
the  general  effect  was  as  crisp  as  it  should  be,  things 
would  have  been  different  for  Liz,  and  for  the  new 
mother  back  in  the  ward.  But  she  did  go  back;  and 
there,  lying  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  bureau,  all 
folded  together,  was  a  piece  of  white  paper  exactly 
as  if  it  has  been  tucked  in  her  belt  with  the  violets. 

She  opened  it  rather  shakily,  and  it  was  a  leaf 
from  the  ward  order-book,  for  at  the  top  it  said : 

Annie  Petowski — may  sit  up  for  one  hour. 

And  below  that: 

Goldstein  baby — bran  baths. 

And  below  that : 

I  love  you.    E.  J. 

"E,  J."  was  the  Junior  Medical. 

So  the  Nurse  went  back  to  the  ward,  and  sat  down, 
palpitating,  in  the  throne-chair  by  the  table,  and 
spread  her  crisp  skirts,  and  found  where  the  page  had 
been  torn  out  of  the  order-book. 

And  as  the  smiles  of  sovereigns  are  hailed  with 
delight  by  their  courts,  so  the  ward  brightened  until 
it  seemed  to  gleam  that  Easter  afternoon.  And  a 
sort  of  miracle  happened:  none  of  the  babies  had 
colic,  and  the  mothers  mostly  slept.  Also,  one  of 
the  ladies  of  the  House  Committee  looked  in  at  the 
door  and  said : 

"How  beautiful  you  are  here,  and  how  peaceful ! 
Your  ward  is  always  a  sort  of  benediction." 


230  LOVE  STORIES 

The  lady  of  the  House  Committee  looked  across 
and  saw  the  new  mother,  with  the  sunshine  on  her 
yellow  braids,  and  her  face  refined  from  the  furnace 
of  pain. 

"What  a  sweet  young  mother !"  she  said,  and 
rustled  out,  leaving  an  odor  of  peau  d'Espagne. 

The  girl  lay  much  as  Liz  had  left  her.  Except 
her  eyes,  there  was  nothing  in  her  face  to  show  that 
despair  had  given  place  to  wild  mutiny.  But  Liz 
knew;  Liz  had  gone  through  it  all  when  "the  first 
one"  came;  and  so,  from  the  end  of  the  ward,  she 
rocked  and  watched. 

The  odor  of  peau  d'Espagne  was  still  in  the  air, 
eclipsing  the  Easter  lilies,  when  Liz  got  up  and 
sauntered  down  to  the  girl's  bed. 

"How  are  you  now,  dearie'?"  she  asked,  and,  reach- 
ing under  the  blankets,  brought  out  the  tiny  pearl- 
handled  knife  with  which  the  girl  had  been  wont  to 
clean  her  finger-nails.  The  girl  eyed  her  savagely, 
but  said  nothing;  nor  did  she  resist  when  Liz 
brought  out  her  hands  and  examined  the  wrists. 
The  left  had  a  small  cut  on  it. 

"Now  listen  to  me,"  said  Liz.  "None  of  that,  do 
you  hear?  You  ain't  the  only  one  that's  laid  here 
and  wanted  to  end  it  all.  And  what  happened*?  In- 
side of  a  month  they're  well  and  strong  again,  and 
they  put  the  kid  somewhere,  and  the  folks  that  know 


THE  MIRACLE  231 

what's  happened  get  used  to  it,  and  the  ones  that 
don't  know  don't  need  to  know.    Don't  be  a  fool !" 

She  carried  the  knife  off,  but  the  girl  made  no 
protest.    There  were  other  ways. 

The  Nurse  was  very  tired,  for  she  had  been  up  al- 
most all  night.  She  sat  at  the  record-table  with  her 
Bible  open,  and,  in  the  intervals  of  taking  tempera- 
tures, she  read  it.  But  mostly  she  read  about  Annie 
Petowski  being  allowed  to  sit  up,  and  the  Goldstein 
baby  having  bran  baths,  and  the  other  thing  written 
below ! 

At  two  o'clock  came  the  Junior  Medical,  in  a 
frock-coat  and  grey  trousers.  He  expected  to  sing 
"The  Palms"  at  the  Easter  service  downstairs  in  the 
chapel  that  afternoon,  and,  according  to  precedent, 
the  one  who  sings  "The  Palms"  on  Easter  in  the 
chapel  must  always  wear  a  frock-coat. 

Very  conscious,  because  all  the  ward  was  staring 
at  his  gorgeousness,  he  went  over  to  the  bed  where 
the  new  mother  lay.  Then  he  came  back  and  stood 
by  the  table,  looking  at  a  record. 

"Have  you  taken  her  temperature  9"  he  said,  busi- 
nesslike and  erect. 

"Ninety-eight." 

"Her  pulse  is  strong*?" 

"Yes;  she's  resting  quietly." 

"Good. — And — did  you  get  my  note*?" 

This,  much  as  if  he  had  said,  "Did  you  find  my 


232 LOVE  STORIES 

scarf -pin  ?"  or  anything  merely  casual;  for  Liz  was 
hovering  near. 

"Yes."  The  nurse's  red  lips  were  trembling,  but 
she  smiled  up  at  him.  Liz  came  nearer.  She  was 
only  wishing  him  Godspeed  with  his  wooing,  but 
it  made  him  uncomfortable. 

"Watch  her  closely,"  he  said,  "she's  pretty  weak 
and  despondent."    And  he  looked  at  Liz. 

"Elizabeth,"  said  the  Nurse,  "won't  you  sit  by 
Claribel  and  fan  her?" 

Claribel  was  the  new  mother.  Claribel  is,  of 
course,  no  name  for  a  mother*  but  she  had  been 
named  when  she  was  very  small. 

Liz  went  away  and  sat  by  the  girl's  bed,  and  said 
a  little  prayer  to  the  effect  that  they  were  both  so 
damned  good  to  everybody,  she  hoped  they'd  hit  it 
off.  But  perhaps  the  prayer  of  the  wicked  availeth 
nothing. 

"You  know  I  meant  that,"  he  said,  from  behind 
a  record.  "I — I  love  you  with  all  my  heart — and  if 
only  you " 

The  nurse  shook  down  a  thermometer  and  ex- 
amined it  closely.  "I  love  you,  too!"  she  said. 
And,  walking  shakily  to  one  of  the  beds,  she  put  the 
thermometer  upside  down  in  Maggie  McNamara's 
mouth. 

The  Junior  Medical  went  away  with  his  shoulders 
erect  in  his  frock-coat,  and  his  heavy  brown  hair, 


THE  MIRACLE 283 

which  would  never  part  properly  and  had  to  be  per- 
suaded with  brilliantine,  bristling  with  happiness. 

And  the  Nurse-Queen,  looking  over  her  kingdom 
for  somebody  to  lavish  her  new  joy  on,  saw  Claribel 
lying  in  bed,  looking  at  the  ceiling  and  reading  there 
all  the  tragedy  of  her  broken  life,  all  her  despair. 

So  she  rustled  out  to  the  baby-room,  where  the 
new  baby  had  never  batted  an  eye  since  her  bath 
and  was  lying  on  her  back  with  both  fists  clenched  on 
her  breast,  and  she  did  something  that  no  trained 
nurse  is  ever  supposed  to  do. 

She  lifted  the  baby,  asleep  and  all,  and  carried  her 
to  her  mother. 

But  Claribel's  face  only  darkened  when  she  saw 
her. 

"Take  the  brat  away,"  she  said,  and  went  on 
reading  tragedies  on  the  ceiling. 

Liz  came  and  proffered  her  the  little  mite  with 
every  art  she  knew.  She  showed  her  the  wrinkled 
bits  of  feet,  the  tiny,  ridiculous  hands,  and  how  long 
the  hair  grew  on  the  back  of  her  head.  But  when 
Liz  put  the  baby  on  her  arm,  she  shuddered  and 
turned  her  head  away.  So  finally  Liz  took  it  back 
to  the  other  room,  and  left  it  there,  still  sleeping. 

The  fine  edge  of  the  Nurse's  joy  was  dulled.  It 
is  a  characteristic  of  great  happiness  to  wish  all  to 
be  well  with  the  world ;  and  here  before  her  was  dry- 
eyed  despair.     It  was  Liz  who  finally  decided  her. 


234  LOVE  STORIES 

"I  guess  I'll  sit  up  with  her  to-night,"  she  said, 
approaching  the  table  with  the  peculiar  gait  engen- 
dered of  heel-less  hospital  carpet-slippers  and  Mother 
Hubbard  wrappers.  "I  don't  like  the  way  she 
watches  the  ceiling." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Elizabeth  ?"  asked  the 
Nurse. 

"Time  I  had  the  twins — that's  before  your  time," 
said  Liz — "we  had  one  like  that.  She  went  out  the 
window  head  first  the  night  after  the  baby  came, 
and  took  the  kid  with  her." 

The  Nurse  rose  with  quick  decision. 

"We  must  watch  her,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  if  I 
could  find — I  think  I'll  go  to  the  telephone.  Watch 
the  ward  carefully,  Elizabeth,  and  if  Annie  Petow- 
ski  tries  to  feed  her  baby  before  three  o'clock,  take 
it  from  her.  The  child's  stuffed  like  a  sausage  every 
time  I'm  out  for  five  minutes." 

Nurses  know  many  strange  things:  they  know 
how  to  rub  an  aching  back  until  the  ache  is  changed 
to  a  restful  thrill,  and  how  to  change  the  bedding 
and  the  patient's  night-dress  without  rolling  the 
patient  over  more  than  once,  which  is  a  high  and 
desirable  form  of  knowledge.  But  also  they  get  to 
know  many  strange  people;  their  clean  starchiness 
has  a  way  of  rubbing  up  against  the  filth  of  the 
world  and  coming  away  unsoiled.    And  so  the  Nurse 


THE  MIRACLE 285 

went  downstairs  to  the  telephone,  leaving  Liz  to 
watch  for  nefarious  feeding. 

The  Nurse  called  up  Rose  Davis;  and  Rosie,  who 
was  lying  in  bed  with  the  Sunday  papers  scattered 
around  her  and  a  cigarette  in  her  manicured  fingers, 
reached  out  with  a  yawn  and,  taking  the  telephone, 
rested  it  on  her  laced  and  ribboned  bosom. 

"Yes,"  she  said  indolently. 

The  nurse  told  her  who  she  was,  and  Rosie' s  voice 
took  on  a  warmer  tinge. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "How  are  you?  .  .  .  Clari- 
bel?    Yes;  what  about  her?  ...  What!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Nurse.     "A  girl — seven  pounds." 

"My  Gawd !  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that ! 
Excuse  me  a  moment;  my  cigarette's  set  fire  to  the 
sheet.     All  right — go  ahead." 

"She's  taking  it  pretty  hard,  and  I — I  thought 
you  might  help  her.     She — she " 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  said  Rose,  a  trifle 
coldly.  She  turned  in  the  bed  and  eyed  the  black 
leather  bag  on  the  stand  at  her  elbow.  "Twenty 
enough?" 

"I  don't  think  it's  money,"  said  the  Nurse,  "al- 
though she  needs  that  too;  she  hasn't  any  clothes  for 
the  baby.  But — she's  awfully  despondent — almost 
desperate.  Have  you  any  idea  who  the  child's 
father  is?" 

Rosie  considered,  lighting  a  new  cigarette  with 


236  LOVE  STORIES 

one  hand  and  balancing  the  telephone  with  the  other. 

"She  left  me  a  year  ago,"  she  said.  "Oh,  yes;  I 
know  now.    What  time  is  it?" 

"Two  o'clock." 

'Til  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Rosie.  "I'll  get 
the  fellow  on  the  wire  and  see  what  he's  willing  to 
do.    Maybe  he'll  give  her  a  dollar  or  two  a  week." 

"Do  you  think  you  could  bring  him  to  see  her?" 

"Say,  what  do  you  think  I  am — a  missionary?" 
The  Nurse  was  wise,  so  she  kept  silent.  "Well,  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  will  do.  If  I  can  bring  him,  I  will. 
How's  that  yellow-haired  she-devil  you've  got  over 
there?  I've  got  that  fixed  all  right.  She  pulled  a 
razor  on  me  first — I've  got  witnesses.  Well,  if  I  can 
get  Al,  I'll  do  it.    So  long." 

It  did  not  occur  to  the  Nurse  to  deprecate  having 
used  an  evil  medium  toward  a  righteous  end.  She 
took  life  much  as  she  found  it.  And  so  she  tiptoed 
past  the  chapel  again,  where  a  faint  odour  of  peau 
d'Espagne  came  stealing  out  into  the  hall,  and  where 
the  children  from  the  children's  ward,  in  roller- 
chairs  and  on  crutches,  were  singing  with  all  their 
shrill  young  voices,  earnest  eyes  uplifted. 

The  white  Easter  lilies  on  the  altar  sent  their  fra- 
grance out  over  the  gathering,  over  the  nurses,  young 
and  placid,  over  the  hopeless  and  the  hopeful,  over 
the  faces  where  death  had  passed  and  left  its  in- 
evitable stamp,  over  bodies  freshly  risen  on  this 


THE  MIRACLE  237 

Easter  Sunday  to  new  hope  and  new  life — over  the 
Junior  Medical,  waiting  with  the  manuscript  of 
"The  Palms"  rolled  in  his  hand  and  his  heart  sing- 
ing a  hymn  of  happiness. 

The  Nurse  went  up  to  her  ward,  and  put  a  screen 
around  Claribel,  and,  with  all  her  woman's  art, 
tidied  the  immaculate  white  bed  and  loosened  the 
uncompromising  yellow  braids,  so  that  the  soft  hair 
fell  across  Claribel's  bloodless  forehead  and  softened 
the  defiance  in  her  blue  eyes.  She  brought  the  pink 
hyacinth  in  its  pot,  too,  and  placed  it  on  the  bedside 
table.  Then  she  stood  off  and  looked  at  her  work. 
It  was  good. 

Claribel  submitted  weakly.  She  had  stopped 
staring  at  the  wall,  and  had  taken  to  watching  the 
open  window  opposite  with  strange  intentness. 
Only  when  the  Nurse  gave  a  final  pat  to  the  bed- 
spread she  spoke. 

"Was  it  a  boy — or  a  girl?'  she  asked. 

"Girl,"  said  the  nurse  briskly.  "A  little  beauty, 
perfect  in  every  way." 

"A  girl — to  grow  up  and  go  through  this  hell !" 
she  muttered,  and  her  eyes  wandered  back  to  the 
window. 

But  the  Nurse  was  wise  with  the  accumulated  wis- 
dom of  a  sex  that  has  had  to  match  strength  with 
wile  for  ages,  and  she  was  not  yet  ready.  She  went 
into  the  little  room  where  eleven  miracles  lay  in 


238  LOVE  STORIES 

eleven  cribs,  and,  although  they  all  looked  exactly 
alike,  she  selected  Claribel's  without  hesitation,  and 
carried  it  to  the  mysterious  room  down  the  hall — 
which  was  no  longer  a  torture-chamber,  but  a  re- 
splendently  white  place,  all  glass  and  tile  and  sun- 
light, and  where  she  did  certain  things  that  are  not 
prescribed  in  the  hospital  rules. 

First  of  all,  she  opened  a  cupboard  and  took  out 
a  baby  dress  of  lace  and  insertion, — and  everybody 
knows  that  such  a  dress  is  used  only  when  a  hospital 
infant  is  baptised, — and  she  clothed  Claribel's  baby 
in  linen  and  fine  raiment,  and  because  they  are  very, 
very  red  when  they  are  so  new,  she  dusted  it  with  a 
bit  of  talcum — to  break  the  shock,  as  you  may  say. 
It  was  very  probable  that  Al  had  never  seen  so  new 
a  baby,  and  it  was  useless  to  spoil  the  joy  of  parent- 
hood unnecessarily.  For  it  really  was  a  fine  child, 
and  eventually  it  would  be  white  and  beautiful. 

The  baby  smelled  of  violet,  for  the  christening- 
robe  was  kept  in  a  sachet. 

Finally  she  gave  it  another  teaspoonful  of  warm 
water  and  put  it  back  in  its  crib.  And  then  she 
rustled  starchily  back  to  the  throne-chair  by  the 
record-table,  and  opened  her  Bible  at  the  place  where 
it  said  that  Annie  Petowski  might  sit  up,  and  the 
Goldstein  baby  —  bran  baths,  and  the  other  thing 
written  just  below. 


THE  MIRACLE  289 


in 

The  music  poured  up  the  well  of  the  staircase; 
softened  by  distance,  the  shrill  childish  sopranos  and 
the  throaty  basses  of  the  medical  staff  merged 
into  a  rising  and  falling  harmony  of  exquisite  beauty. 

Liz  sat  on  the  top  step  of  the  stairs,  with  her  baby 
in  her  arms;  and,  as  the  song  went  on,  Liz's  eyes 
fell  to  her  child  and  stayed  there.  * 

At  three  o'clock  the  elevator-man  brought  Rosie 
Davis  along  the  hall — Rosie,  whose  costume  be- 
trayed haste,  and  whose  figure,  under  a  gaudy  mo- 
tor-coat, gave  more  than  a  suggestion  of  being  un- 
supported and  wrapper-clad.  She  carried  a  clink- 
ing silver  chatelaine,  however,  and  at  the  door  she 
opened  it  and  took  out  a  quarter,  extending  it  with 
a  regal  gesture  to  the  elevator-man. 

"Here,  old  sport,"  she  said,  "go  and  blow  your- 
self to  a  drink.    It's  Easter." 

Such  munificence  appalled  the  ward. 

Rosie  was  not  alone.  Behind  her,  uncomfortable 
and  sullen,  was  Al.  The  ward,  turning  from  the 
episode  of  the  quarter,  fixed  on  him  curious  and 
hostile  eyes;  and  Al,  glancing  around  the  ward  from 
the  doorway,  felt  their  hostility,  and  plucked 
Rosie's  arm. 

"Gee,  Rose,  I'm  not  going  in  there,"  he  said.  But 
Rosie  pulled  him  m  and  presented  him  to  the  Nurse. 


240  LOVE  STORIES 

Behind  the  screen,  Claribel,  shut  off  from  her  view 
of  the  open  window,  had  taken  to  staring  at  the 
ceiling  again. 

When  the  singing  came  up  the  staircase  from  the 
chapel,  she  had  moaned  and  put  her  fingers  in  her 
ears. 

"Well,  I  found  him,"  said  Rosie  cheerfully. 
"Had  the  deuce  of  a  time  locating  him."  And  the 
Nurse,  apprising  in  one  glance  his  stocky  figure  and 
heavy  shoulders,  his  ill-at-ease  arrogance,  his  weak, 
and  just  now  sullen  but  not  bad-tempered  face, 
smiled  at  him. 

"We  have  a  little  girl  here  who  will  be  glad  to 
see  you,"  she  said,  and  took  him  to  the  screen. 
"Just  five  minutes,  and  you  must  do  the  talking." 

Al  hesitated  between  the  visible  antagonism  of 
the  ward  and  the  mystery  of  the  white  screen.  A 
vision  of  Claribel  as  he  had  seen  her  last,  swollen 
with  grief  and  despair,  distorted  of  figure  and  ac- 
cusing of  voice,  held  him  back.  A  faint  titter  of 
derision  went  through  the  room.  He  turned  on 
Rosie's  comfortable  back  a  look  of  black  hate  and 
fury.  Then  the  Nurse  gave  him  a  gentle  shove,  and 
he  was  looking  at  Claribel — a  white,  Madonna-faced 
Claribel,  lying  now  with  closed  eyes,  her  long  lashes 
sweeping  her  cheek. 

The  girl  did  not  open  her  eyes  at  his  entrance. 
He  put  his  hat  awkwardly  on  the  foot  of  the  bed, 


THE  MIRACLE 241 

and,  tiptoeing  around,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  stiff 
chair. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  kid*?"  he  asked,  with  af- 
fected ease. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  stared  at  him.  Then 
she  made  a  little  clutch  at  her  throat,  as  if  she  were 
smothering. 

"How  did  you — how  did  you  know  I  was  here  9" 

"Saw  it  in  the  paper,  in  the  society  column."  She 
winced  at  that,  and  some  fleeting  sense  of  what  was 
fitting  came  to  his  aid.  "How  are  you*?"  he  asked 
more  gently.  He  had  expected  a  flood  of  reproaches, 
and  he  was  magnanimous  in  his  relief. 

"I've  been  pretty  bad;  I'm  better." 

"Oh,  you'll  be  around  soon,  and  going  to  dances 
again.  The  Maginnis  Social  Club's  having  a  dance 
Saturday  night  in  Mason's  Hall." 

The  girl  did  not  reply.  She  was  wrestling  with 
a  problem  that  is  as  old  as  the  ages,  although  she 
did  not  know  it — why  this  tragedy  of  hers  should 
not  be  his.  She  lay  with  her  hands  crossed  quietly 
on  her  breast  and  one  of  the  loosened  yellow  braids 
was  near  his  hand.  He  picked  it  up  and  ran  it 
through  his  fingers. 

"Hasn't  hurt  your  looks  any,"  he  said  awkwardly. 
"You're  looking  pretty  good." 

With  a  jerk  of  her  head  she  pulled  the  braid  out 
of  his  fingers. 


242  LOVE  STORIES 

"Don't,"  she  said  and  fell  to  staring  at  the  ceil- 
ing, where  she  had  written  her  problem. 

"How's  the — how's  the  kid*?" — after  a  moment. 

"I  don't  know — or  care." 

There  was  nothing  strange  to  Al  in  this  frame  of 
mind.     Neither  did  he  know  or  care. 
i     "What  are  you  goin'  to  do  with  it?" 

"Kill  it!" 

Al  considered  this  a  moment.  Things  were  bad 
enough  now,  without  Claribel  murdering  the  child 
and  making  things  worse.  % 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,"  he  said  soothingly.  "You 
can  put  it  somewhere,  can't  you?  Maybe  Rosie'll 
know." 

"I  don't  want  it  to  live." 

For  the  first  time  he  realised  her  despair.  She 
turned  on  him  her  tormented  eyes,  and  he  quailed. 

"I'll  find  a  place  for  it,  kid,"  he  said.  "It's  mine, 
too.    I  guess  I'm  it,  all  right." 

"Yours!"  She  half  rose  on  her  elbow,  weak  as 
she  was.  "Yours !  Didn't  you  throw  me  over  when 
you  found  I  was  going  to  have  it?  Yours!  Did 
you  go  through  hell  for  twenty-four  hours  to  bring 
it  into  the  world?  I  tell  you,  it's  mine — mine! 
And  I'll  do  what  I  want  with  it.  I'll  kill  it,  and 
myself  too!" 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  saying!" 


THE  MIRACLE  243 

She  had  dropped  back,  white  and  exhausted. 

"Don't  ft*  she  said,  and  fell  silent. 

Al  felt  defrauded,  ill-treated.  He  had  done  the 
right  thing;  he  had  come  to  see  the  girl,  which  wasn't 
customary  in  those  circles  where  Al  lived  and  worked 
and  had  his  being;  he  had  acknowledged  his  respon- 
sibility, and  even — why,  hang  it  all 

"Say  the  word  and  I'll  marry  you,"  he  said  mag- 
nanimously. 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  you." 

He  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  Nothing  could  have 
been  fairer  than  his  offer,  and  she  had  refused  it. 
He  wished  Rosie  had  been  there  to  hear. 

And  just  then  Rosie  came.  She  carried  the  baby, 
still  faintly  odorous  of  violets,  held  tight  in  unac- 
customed arms.  She  looked  awkward  and  conscious, 
but  her  amused  smile  at  herself  was  half  tender. 

"Hello,  Claribel,"  she  said.  "How  are  you? 
Just  look  here,  Al!     What  do  you  think  of  this?" 

Al  got  up  sheepishly  and  looked  at  the  child. 

"Boy  or  girl?"  he  asked  politely. 

"Girl;  but  it's  the  living  image  of  you,"  said  Rose 
— for  Rose  and  the  Nurse  were  alike  in  the  wiles  of 
the  serpent. 

"Looks  like  me!"  Al  observed  caustically.  "Looks 
like  an  over-ripe  tomato!" 

But  he  drew  himself  up  a  trifle.     Somewhere  in 


244  LOVE  STORIES 

his  young  and  hardened  soul  the  germs  of  parental 
pride,  astutely  sowed,  had  taken  quick  root. 

"Feel  how  heavy  she  is,"  Rose  commanded.  And 
Al  held  out  two  arms  unaccustomed  to  such  tender 
offices. 

"Heavy !    She's  about  as  big  as  a  peanut." 

"Mind  her  back,"  said  Rose,  remembering  instruc- 
tions. 

After  her  first  glance  Claribel  had  not  looked  at 
the  child.  But  now,  in  its  father's  arms,  it  began 
to  whimper.  The  mother  stirred  uneasily,  and 
frowned. 

"Take  it  away!"  she  ordered.  "I  told  them  not 
to  bring  it  here." 

The  child  cried  louder.  Its  tinv  red  face,  under 
the  powder,  turned  purple.  It  beat  the  air  with  its 
fists.  Al,  still  holding  it  in  his  outstretched  arms, 
began  vague  motions  to  comfort  it,  swinging  it  up 
and  down  and  across.  But  it  cried  on,  drawing  up 
its  tiny  knees  in  spasms  of  distress.  Claribel  put 
her  fingers  in  her  ears. 

"You'll  have  to  feed  it!"  Rose  shouted  over  the 
din. 

The  girl  comprehended  without  hearing,  and 
shook  her  head  in  sullen  obstinacy. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  for  noise?"  said  Al, 
not  without  pride.  "She's  like  me,  all  right.  When 
I'm  hungry,  there's  hell  to  pay  if  I'm  not  fed  quick. 


THE  MIRACLE 245 

Here," — he  bent  down  over  Claribel, — "you  might 
as  well  have  dinner  now,  and  stop  the  row." 

Not  ungently,  he  placed  the  squirming  mass  in 
the  baptismal  dress  beside  the  girl  on  the  bed.  With 
the  instinct  of  ages,  the  baby  stopped  wailing  and 
opened  her  mouth. 

"The  little  cuss!''  cried  Al,  delighted.  "Ain't 
that  me  all  over?  Little  angel-face  the  minute  I 
get  to  the  table !" 

Unresisting  now,  Claribel  let  Rose  uncover  her 
firm  white  breast.  The  mother's  arm,  passively  ex- 
tended by  Rose  to  receive  the  small  body,  contracted 
around  it  unconsciously. 

She  turned  and  looked  long  at  the  nuzzling,  eager 
mouth,  at  the  red  hand  lying  trustfully  open  on  her 
breast,  at  the  wrinkled  face,  the  indeterminate  nose, 
the  throbbing  fontanelle  where  the  little  life  was 
already  beating  so  hard. 

"A  girl,  Rose !"  she  said.  "My  God,  what  am  I 
going  to  do  with  her?" 

Rose  was  not  listening.  The  Junior  Medical's 
turn  had  come  at  last.  Downstairs  in  the  chapel,  he 
was  standing  by  the  organ,  his  head  thrown  back,  his 
heavy  brown  hair  (which  would  never  stay  parted 
without  the  persuasion  of  brilliantine)  bristling  with 
earnestness. 

"O'er  all  the  way,  green  palms  and  blossoms  gay" 


246  LOVE  STORIES 

he  sang,  and  his  clear  tenor  came  welling  up  the 
staircase  to  Liz,  and  past  her  to  the  ward,  and  to 
the  group  behind  the  screen. 

"Are  strewn  this  day  in  festal  preparation, 
Where  Jesus  comes  to  wipe  our  tears  away — 
E'en  now  the  throng  to  welcome  Him  prepare." 

On  the  throne-chair  by  the  record-table,  the  Nurse 
sat  and  listened.  And  because  it  was  Easter  and 
she  was  very  happy  and  because  of  the  thrill  in  the 
tenor  voice  that  came  up  the  stairs  to  her,  and  be- 
cause of  the  page  in  the  order-book  about  bran  baths 
and  the  rest  of  it,  she  cried  a  little,  surreptitiously, 
and  let  the  tears  drop  down  on  a  yellow  hospital 
record. 

The  song  was  almost  done.  Liz,  on  the  stairs, 
had  fed  her  baby  twenty  minutes  too  soon,  and  now 
it  lay,  sleeping  and  sated,  in  her  lap.  Liz  sat  there, 
brooding  over  it,  and  the  last  line  of  the  song  came 
up  the  staircase. 

"Blessed  is  He  who   comes  bringing  sal-va-a-a-a- 
tion!" 

the  Junior  Medical  sang. 

The  services  were  over.  Downstairs  the  small 
crowd  dispersed  slowly.  The  minister  shook  hands 
with  the  nurses  at  the  door,  and  the  Junior  Medical 


THE  MIRACLE  247 

rolled  up  his  song  and  wondered  how  soon  he  could 
make  rounds  upstairs  again. 

Liz  got  up,  with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  padded 
in  to  the  throne-chair  by  the  record-table. 

"He  can  sing  some,  can't  he !"  she  said. 

"He  has  a  beautiful  voice."  The  Nurse's  eyes 
were  shining. 

Liz  moved  off.    Then  she  turned  and  came  back. 

"I — I  know  you'll  tell  me  I'm  a  fool,"  she  said; 
"but  I've  decided  to  keep  the  kid,  this  time.  I  guess 
I'll  make  out,  somehow." 

Behind  the  screen,  Rosie  had  lighted  a  cigarette 
and  was  smoking,  sublimely  unconscious  of  the  blue 
smoke  swirl  that  rose  in  telltale  clouds  high  above 
her  head.  The  baby  had  dropped  asleep,  and  Clari- 
bel  lay  still.  But  her  eyes  were  not  on  the  ceiling; 
they  were  on  the  child. 

Al  leaned  forward  and  put  his  lips  to  the  arm  that 
circled  the  baby. 

"I'm  sorry,  kid/'  he  said.  "I  guess  it  was  the 
limit,  all  right.    Do  you  hate  me4?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  the  hardness  and  defiance 
died  out  of  her  eyes.    She  shook  her  head. 

"No." 

"Do  you — still — like  me  a  little?" 

"Yes,"  in  a  whisper. 

"Then  what's  the  matter  with  you  and  me  and 


248 LOVE  STORIES 

the  little  mutt  getting  married  and  starting  all  over 
—eh?' 

He  leaned  over  and  buried  his  face  with  a  caress- 
ing movement  in  the  hollow  of  her  neck. 

Rose  extinguished  her  cigarette  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  and,  careful  of  appearances,  put  the  butt 
in  her  chatelaine. 

"I  guess  you  two  don't  need  me  any  more,"  she 
said  yawning.    "I'm  going  back  home  to  bed." 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!" 


ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!" 


THERE  are  certain  people  who  will  never  under- 
stand this  story,  people  who  live  their  lives  by 
rule  of  thumb.  Little  lives  they  are,  too,  measured 
by  the  letter  and  not  the  spirit.  Quite  simple  too. 
Right  is  right  and  wrong  is  wrong. 

That  shadowy  No  Man's  Land  between  the 
trenches  of  virtue  and  sin,  where  most  of  us  fight 
our  battles  and  are  wounded,  and  even  die,  does  not 
exist  for  them. 

The  boy  in  this  story  belonged  to  that  class.  Even 
if  he  reads  it  he  may  not  recognise  it.  But  he  will 
not  read  it  or  have  it  read  to  him.  He  will  even  be 
somewhat  fretful  if  it  comes  his  way. 

"If  that's  one  of  those  problem  things,"  he  will 
say,  "I  don't  want  to  hear  it.  I  don't  see  why  no- 
body writes  adventure  any  more." 

Right  is  right  and  wrong  is  wrong.  Seven  words 
for  a  creed,  and  all  of  life  to  live ! 

This  is  not  a  war  story.  But  it  deals,  as  must 
anything  that  represents  life  in  this  year  of  our  Lord 
of  Peace,  with  war.     With  war  in  its  human  rela- 

251 


252 LOVE  STORIES 

tions.  Not  with  guns  and  trenches,  but  with  men 
and  women,  with  a  boy  and  a  girl. 

For  only  in  the  mass  is  war  vast.  To  the  man  in 
the  trench  it  reduces  itself  to  the  man  on  his  right, 
the  man  on  his  left,  the  man  across,  beyond  the 
barbed  wire,  and  a  woman. 

The  boy  was  a  Canadian.  He  was  twenty-two  and 
not  very  tall.  His  name  in  this  story  is  Cecil  Hamil- 
ton. He  had  won  two  medals  for  life-saving,  each 
in  a  leather  case.  He  had  saved  people  from  drown- 
ing. When  he  went  abroad  to  fight  he  took  the 
medals  along.  Not  to  show.  But  he  felt  that  the 
time  might  come  when  he  would  not  be  sure  of  him- 
self. A  good  many  men  on  the  way  to  war  have  felt 
that  way.  The  body  has  a  way  of  turning  craven, 
in  spite  of  high  resolves.  It  would  be  rather  com- 
forting, he  felt,  to  have  those  medals  somewhere 
about  him  at  that  time.  He  never  looked  at  them 
without  a  proud  little  intake  of  breath  and  a  certain 
swelling  of  the  heart. 

On  the  steamer  he  found  that  a  medal  for  running 
had  slipped  into  one  of  the  cases.  He  rather  chuckled 
over  that.  He  had  a  sense  of  humour,  in  spite  of  his 
seven-word  creed.  And  a  bit  of  superstition,  for 
that  night,  at  dusk,  he  went  out  on  to  the  darkened 
deck  and  flung  it  overboard. 

The  steamer  had  picked  him  up  at  Halifax — a 
cold  dawn,  with  a  few  pinched  faces  looking  over  the 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  253 

rail.  Forgive  him  if  he  swaggered  up  the  gangway. 
He  was  twenty-two,  he  was  a  lieutenant,  and  he  was 
a  fighting  man. 

The  girl  in  the  story  saw  him  then.  She  was  up 
and  about,  in  a  short  sport  suit,  with  a  white  tam-o'- 
shanter  on  her  head  and  a  white  woolen  scarf  tucked 
round  her  neck.  Under  her  belted  coat  she  wore  a 
middy  blouse,  and  when  she  saw  Lieutenant  Cecil 
Hamilton,  with  his  eager  eyes — not  unlike  her  own, 
his  eyes  were  young  and  inquiring — she  reached  into 
a  pocket  of  the  bouse  and  dabbed  her  lips  with  a 
small  stick  of  cold  cream. 

Cold  air  has  a  way  of  drying  lips. 

He  caught  her  at  it,  and  she  smiled.  It  was  all 
over  for  him  then,  poor  lad ! 

Afterward,  when  he  was  in  the  trenches,  he  won- 
dered about  that.  He  called  it  "Kismet"  to  himself. 
It  was  really  a  compound,  that  first  day  or  two,  of 
homesickness  and  a  little  furtive  stirring  of  anxiety 
and  the  thrill  of  new  adventure  that  was  in  his 
blood. 

On  the  second  afternoon  out  they  had  tea  together, 
she  in  her  steamer  chair  and  he  calmly  settled  next  to 
her,  in  a  chair  belonging  to  an  irritated  English  law- 
yer. Afterward  he  went  down  to  his  cabin,  hung 
round  with  his  new  equipment,  and  put  away  the 
photograph  of  a  very  nice  Toronto  girl,  which  had 
been  propped  up  back  of  his  hairbrushes. 


254  LOVE  STORIES 

They  got  rather  well  acquainted  that  first  day. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  with  his  cup  in  one  hand 
and  a  rather  stale  cake  in  the  other,  "it's  awfully 
bully  of  you  to  be  so  nice  to  me." 

She  let  that  go.  She  was  looking,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  after  a  tall  man  with  heavily  fringed  eyes  and 
English  clothes,  who  had  just  gone  by. 

"You  know,"  he  confided — he  frequently  prefaced 
his  speeches  with  that — "I  was  horribly  lonely  when 
I  came  up  the  gangway.  Then  I  saw  you,  and  you 
were  smiling.    It  did  me  a  lot  of  good." 

"I  suppose  I  really  should  not  have  smiled."  She 
came  back  to  him  with  rather  an  effort.  "But  you 
caught  me,  you  know.  It  wasn't  rouge.  It  was  cold 
cream.    I'll  show  you." 

She  unbuttoned  her  jacket,  against  his  protest,  and 
held  out  the  little  stick.    He  took  it  and  looked  at  it. 

"You  don't  need  even  this,"  he  said  rather  se- 
verely. He  disapproved  of  cosmetics.  "You  have  a 
lovely  mouth." 

"It's  rather  large.    Don't  you  think  so*?" 

"It's  exactly  right." 

He  was  young,  and  as  yet  more  interested  in  him- 
self than  in  anything  in  the  world.  So  he  sat  there 
and  told  her  who  he  was,  and  what  he  hoped  to  do 
and,  rather  to  his  own  astonishment,  about  the 
medals. 

"How  very  brave  you  are !"  she  said. 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  255 

That  made  him  anxious.  He  hoped  she  did  not 
think  he  was  swanking.  It  was  only  that  he  did 
not  make  friends  easily,  and  when  he  did  meet  some- 
body he  liked  he  was  apt  to  forget  and  talk  too  much 
about  himself.  He  was  so  afraid  that  he  gulped 
down  his  tepid  tea  in  a  hurry  and  muttered  some- 
thing about  letters  to  write,  and  got  himself  away. 
The  girl  stared  after  him  with  a  pucker  between  her 
eyebrows.  And  the  tall  man  came  and  took  the 
place  he  vacated. 

Things  were  worrying  the  girl — whose  name,  by 
the  way,  was  Edith.  On  programs  it  was  spelled 
"Edythe,"  but  that  was  not  her  fault.  Yes,  on 
programs — Edythe  O'Hara.  The  business  manager 
had  suggested  deHara,  but  she  had  refused.  Not 
that  it  mattered  much.  She  had  been  in  the  chorus. 
She  had  a  little  bit  of  a  voice,  rather  sweet,  and  she 
was  divinely  young  and  graceful. 

In  the  chorus  she  would  have  remained,  too,  but 
for  one  of  those  queer  shifts  that  alter  lives.  A  girl 
who  did  a  song  and  an  eccentric  dance  had  wrenched 
her  knee,  and  Edith  had  gone  on  in  her  place.  Some- 
thing of  her  tomboy  youth  remained  in  her,  and  for 
a  few  minutes,  as  she  frolicked  over  the  stage,  she 
was  a  youngster,  dancing  to  her  shadow. 

She  had  not  brought  down  the  house,  but  a  man 
with  heavily  fringed  eyes,  who  watched  her  from  the 
wings,  made  a  note  of  her  name.    He  was  in  Amer- 


256  HOSPITAL  STORIES 

ica  for  music-hall  material  for  England,  and  he  was 
shrewd  after  the  manner  of  his  kind.  Here  was  a 
girl  who  frolicked  on  the  stage.  The  English,  accus- 
tomed to  either  sensuous  or  sedate  dancing,  would 
fall  hard  for  her,  he  decided.  Either  that,  or  she 
would  go  "bla."    She  was  a  hit  or  nothing. 

And  that,  in  so  many  words,  he  told  her  that 
afternoon. 

"Feeling  all  right?"  he  asked  her. 

"Better  than  this  morning.  The  wind's  gone 
down,  hasn't  it?" 

He  did  not  answer  her.  He  sat  on  the  side  of  the 
chair  and  looked  her  over. 

"You  want  to  keep  well,"  he  warned  her.  "The 
whole  key  to  your  doing  anything  is  vitality.  That's 
the  word — Life." 

She  smiled.  It  seemed  so  easy.  Life  ?  She  was 
full-fed  with  the  joy  of  it.  Even  as  she  sat,  her 
active  feet  in  their  high-heeled  shoes  were  aching 
to  be  astir. 

"Working  in  the  gymnasium?"  he  demanded. 

"Two  hours  a  day,  morning  and  evening.    Feel." 

She  held  out  her  arm  to  him,  and  he  felt  its  small, 
rounded  muscle,  with  a  smile.  But  his  heavily 
fringed  eyes  were  on  her  face,  and  he  kept  his  hold 
until  she  shook  it  off. 

"Who's  the  soldier  boy?"  he  asked  suddenly. 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  257 

"Lieutenant  Hamilton.  He's  rather  nice.  Don't 
you  think  so*?" 

"He'll  do  to  play  with  on  the  trip.  You'll  soon 
lose  him  in  London." 

The  winter  darkness  closed  down  round  them. 
Stewards  were  busy  closing  ports  and  windows  with 
fitted  cardboards.  Through  the  night  the  ship  would 
travel  over  the  dangerous  lanes  of  the  sea  with  only 
her  small  port  and  starboard  lights.  A  sense  of  ex- 
hilaration possessed  Edith.  This  hurling  forward 
over  black  water,  this  sense  of  danger,  visualised  by 
precautions,  this  going  to  something  new  and  strange, 
set  every  nerve  to  jumping.  She  threw  back  her  rug, 
and  getting  up  went  to  the  rail.  Lethway,  the  man- 
ager, followed  her. 

"Nervous,  aren't  you*?" 

"Not  frightened,  anyhow." 

It  was  then  that  he  told  her  how  he  had  sized  the 
situation  up.    She  was  a  hit  or  nothing. 

"If  you  go  all  right,"  he  said,  "you  can  have  the 
town.  London's  for  you  or  against  you,  especially 
if  you're  an  American.    If  you  go  flat " 

"Then  what?' 

She  had  not  thought  of  that.  What  would  she 
do  then?  Her  salary  was  not  to  begin  until  the 
performances  started.  Her  fare  and  expenses  across 
were  paid,  but  how  about  getting  back?    Even  at  the 


258  HOSPITAL  STORIES 

best  her  salary  was  small.  That  had  been  one  of 
her  attractions  to  Lethway. 

"I'll  have  to  go  home,  of  course,"  she  said.  "If 
they  don't  like  me,  and  decide  in  a  hurry,  I — I  may 
have  to  borrow  money  from  you  to  get  back." 

"Don't  worry  about  that.''  He  put  a  hand  over 
hers  as  it  lay  on  the  rail,  and  when  she  made  no  effort 
to  release  it  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her  warm 
fingers.    "Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  he  repeated. 

She  did  worry,  however.  Down  in  her  cabin,  not 
so  tidy  as  the  boy's — littered  with  her  curiously 
anomalous  belongings,  a  great  bunch  of  violets  in  the 
wash  bowl,  a  cheap  toilet  set,  elaborate  high-heeled 
shoes,  and  a  plain  muslin  nightgown  hanging  to  the 
door — down  there  she  opened  her  trunk  and  got  out 
her  contract.  There  was  nothing  in  it  about  getting 
back  home. 

For  a  few  minutes  she  was  panicky.  Her  hands 
shook  as  she  put  the  document  away.  She  knew  life 
with  all  the  lack  of  illusion  of  two  years  in  the  chorus. 
Even  Lethway — not  that  she  minded  his  casual 
caress  on  the  deck.  She  had  seen  a  lot  of  that.  It 
meant  nothing.  Stage  directors  either  bawled  you 
out  or  petted  you.     That  was  part  of  the  business. 

But  to-night,  all  day  indeed,  there  had  been  some- 
thing in  Lethway's  face  that  worried  her.  And  there 
were  other  things. 

The  women  on  the  boat  replied  coldly  to  her 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  259 

friendly  advances.  She  had  spoken  to  a  nice  girl, 
her  own  age  or  thereabouts,  and  the  girl's  mother 
or  aunt  or  chaperon,  whoever  it  was,  had  taken  her 
away.  It  had  puzzled  her  at  the  time.  Now  she 
knew.  The  crowd  that  had  seen  her  off,  from  the 
Pretty  Coquette  Company — that  had  queered  her, 
she  decided.    That  and  Lethway. 

None  of  the  girls  had  thought  it  odd  that  she 
should  cross  the  ocean  with  Lethway.  They  had  been 
envious,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  They  had  brought  her 
gifts,  the  queer  little  sachets  and  fruit  and  boxes  of 
candy  that  littered  the  room.  In  that  half  hour  be- 
fore sailing  they  had  chattered  about  her,  chorus  un- 
mistakably, from  their  smart,  cheap  little  hats  to 
their  short  skirts  and  fancy  shoes.  Her  roommate, 
Mabel,  had  been  the  only  one  she  had  hated  to  leave. 
And  Mabel  had  queered  her,  too,  with  her  short- 
bobbed  yellow  hair. 

She  did  a  reckless  thing  that  night,  out  of  pure 
defiance.  It  was  a  winter  voyage  in  wartime.  The 
night  before  the  women  had  gone  down,  sedately 
dressed,  to  dinner.  The  girl  she  had  tried  to  speak 
to  had  worn  a  sweater.    So  Edith  dressed  for  dinner. 

She  whitened  her  neck  and  arms  with  liquid  pow- 
der, and  slicked  up  her  brown  hair  daringly  smooth 
and  flat.  Then  she  put  on  her  one  evening  dress,  a 
black  net,  and  pinned  on  her  violets.  She  rouged 
her  lips  a  bit  too. 


260  LOVE  STORIES 

The  boy,  meeting  her  on  the  companionway, 
gasped. 

That  night  he  asked  permission  to  move  over  to 
her  table,  and  after  that  the  three  of  them  ate  to- 
gether, Lethway  watching  and  saying  little,  the 
other  two  chattering.  They  were  very  gay.  They 
gambled  to  the  extent  of  a  quarter  each,  on  the  num- 
ber of  fronds,  or  whatever  they  are,  in  the  top  of  a 
pineapple  that  Cecil  ordered  in,  and  she  won.  It 
was  delightful  to  gamble,  she  declared,  and  put  the 
fifty  cents  into  a  smoking-room  pool. 

The  boy  was  clearly  infatuated.  She  looked  like 
a  debutante,  and,  knowing  it,  acted  the  part.  It  was 
not  acting  really.  Life  had  only  touched  her  so  far, 
and  had  left  no  mark.  When  Lethway  lounged 
away  to  an  evening's  bridge  Cecil  fetched  his  mili- 
tary cape  and  they  went  on  deck. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  rather  lonely  for  you,"  he  said. 
"It's  always  like  this  the  first  day  or  two.  Then  the 
women  warm  up  and  get  friendly." 

"I  don't  want  to  know  them.  They  are  a  stupid- 
looking  lot.     Did  you  ever  see  such  clothes'?" 

"You  are  the  only  person  who  looks  like  a  lady 
to-night,"  he  observed.  "You  look  lovely.  I  hope 
you  don't  mind  my  saying  it?" 

She  was  a  downright  young  person,  after  all.  And 
there  was  something  about  the  boy  that  compelled 
candour.    So,  although  she  gathered  after  a  time  that 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  261 

he  did  not  approve  of  chorus  girls,  was  even  rather 
skeptical  about  them  and  believed  that  the  stage 
should  be  an  uplifting  influence,  she  told  him  about 
herself  that  night. 

It  was  a  blow.  He  rallied  gallantly,  but  she  could 
see  him  struggling  to  gain  this  new  point  of  view. 

"Anyhow,"  he  said  at  last,  "you're  not  like  the 
others."  Then  hastily:  "I  don't  mean  to  offend  you 
when  I  say  that,  you  know.  Only  one  can  tell,  to 
look  at  you,  that  you  are  different."  He  thought 
that  sounded  rather  boyish,  and  remembered  that  he 
was  going  to  the  war,  and  was,  or  would  soon  be,  a 
fighting  man.  "I've  known  a  lot  of  girls,"  he  added 
rather  loftily.     "All  sorts  of  girls." 

It  was  the  next  night  that  Lethway  kissed  her. 
He  had  left  her  alone  most  of  the  day,  and  by  sheer 
gravitation  of  loneliness  she  and  the  boy  drifted 
together.  .All  day  long  they  ranged  the  ship,  watched 
a  boxing  match  in  the  steerage,  fed  bread  to  the 
hovering  gulls  from  the  stern.  They  told  each  other 
many  things.  There  had  been  a  man  in  the  com- 
pany who  had  wanted  to  marry  her,  but  she  intended 
to  have  a  career.  Anyhow,  she  would  not  marry  un- 
less she  loved  a  person  very  much. 

He  eyed  her  wistfully  when  she  said  that. 

At  dusk  he  told  her  about  the  girl  in  Toronto. 

"It  wasn't  an  engagement,  you  understand.  But 
we've  been  awfully  good  friends.     She  came  to  see 


262 LOVE  STORIES 

me  off.  It  was  rather  awful.  She  cried.  She  had 
some  sort  of  silly  idea  that  I'll  get  hurt." 

It  was  her  turn  to  look  wistful.  Oh,  they  were 
getting  on!  When  he  went  to  ask  the  steward  to 
bring  tea  to  the  corner  they  had  found,  she  looked 
after  him.  She  had  been  so  busy  with  her  own  wor- 
ries that  she  had  not  thought  much  of  the  significance 
of  his  neatly  belted  khaki.  Suddenly  it  hurt  her. 
He  was  going  to  war. 

She  knew  little  about  the  war,  except  from  the 
pictures  in  illustrated  magazines.  Once  or  twice  she 
had  tried  to  talk  about  it  with  Mabel,  but  Mabel 
had  only  said,  "It's  fierce!"  and  changed  the  subject. 

The  uniforms  scattered  over  the  ship  and  the  pre- 
cautions taken  at  night,  however,  were  bringing  this 
thing  called  war  very  close  to  her.  It  was  just  be- 
yond that  horizon  toward  which  they  were  heading. 
And  even  then  it  was  brought  nearer  to  her. 

Under  cover  of  the  dusk  the  girl  she  had  tried  to 
approach  came  up  and  stood  beside  her.  Edith  was 
very  distant  with  her. 

"The  nights  make  me  nervous,"  the  girl  said.  "In 
the  daylight  it  is  not  so  bad.  But  these  darkened 
windows  bring  it  all  home  to  me — the  war,  you 
know." 

"I  guess  it's  pretty  bad." 

"It's  bad  enough.  My  brother  has  been  wounded. 
I  am  going  to  him." 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  263 

Even  above  the  sound  of  the  water  Edith  caught 
the  thrill  in  her  voice.  It  was  a  new  tone  to  her,  the 
exaltation  of  sacrifice. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  And  some  subconscious 
memory  of  Mabel  made  her  say:    "It's  fierce !" 

The  girl  looked  at  her. 

"That  young  officer  you're  with,  he's  going,  of 
course.  He  seems  very  young.  My  brother  was 
older.    Thirty." 

"He's  twenty-two." 

"He  has  such  nice  eyes,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
wish " 

But  he  was  coming  back,  and  she  slipped  away. 

During  tea  Cecil  caught  her  eyes  on  him  more  than 
once.  He  had  taken  off  his  stiff-crowned  cap,  and 
the  wind  blew  his  dark  hair  round. 

"I  wish  you  were  not  going  to  the  war,"  she  said 
unexpectedly.  It  had  come  home  to  her,  all  at  once, 
the  potentialities  of  that  trim  uniform.  It  made  her 
a  little  sick. 

"It's  nice  of  you  to  say  that." 

There  was  a  new  mood  on  her,  of  confession,  al- 
most of  consecration.  He  asked  her  if  he  might 
smoke.  No  one  in  her  brief  life  had  ever  before 
asked  her  permission  to  smoke. 

"I'll  have  to  smoke  all  I  can,"  he  said.  "The  fel- 
lows say  cigarettes  are  scarce  in  the  trenches.  I'm 
taking  a  lot  over." 


264  LOVE  STORIES 

He  knew  a  girl  who  smoked  cigarettes,  he  said. 
She  was  a  nice  girl  too.  He  couldn't  understand  it. 
The  way  he  felt  about  it,  maybe  a  cigarette  for  a 
girl  wasn't  a  crime.  But  it  led  to  other  things — 
drinking,  you  know,  and  all  that. 

"The  fellows  don't  respect  a  girl  that  smokes,"  he 
said.  "That's  the  plain  truth.  I've  talked  to  her 
a  lot  about  it." 

"It  wasn't  your  friend  in  Toronto,  was  it?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  He  repudiated  the  idea 
with  horror. 

It  was  the  girl  who  had  to  readjust  her  ideas  of 
life  that  day.  She  had  been  born  and  raised  in  that 
neutral  ground  between  the  lines  of  right  and  wrong, 
and  now  suddenly  her  position  was  attacked  and  she 
must  choose  sides.    She  chose. 

"I've  smoked  a  cigarette  now  and  then.  If  you 
think  it  is  wrong  I'll  not  do  it  any  more." 

He  was  almost  overcome,  both  at  the  confession 
and  at  her  renunciation.  To  tell  the  truth,  among 
the  older  Canadian  officers  he  had  felt  rather  a  boy. 
Her  promise  reinstated  him  in  his  own  esteem.  He 
was  a  man,  and  a  girl  was  offering  to  give  something 
up  if  he  wished  it.    It  helped  a  lot. 

That  evening  he  laid  out  his  entire  equipment  in 
his  small  cabin,  and  invited  her  to  see  it.  He  put  his 
mother's  picture  behind  his  brushes,  where  the  other 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  265 

one  had  been,  and  when  all  was  ready  he  rang  for 
a  stewardess. 

"I  am  going  to  show  a  young  lady  some  of  my 
stuff,"  he  explained.  "And  as  she  is  alone  I  wish 
you'd  stay  round,  will  you^  I  want  her  to  feel  per- 
fectly comfortable." 

The  stewardess  agreed,  and  as  she  was  an  elderly 
woman,  with  a  son  at  the  front,  a  boy  like  Cecil,  she 
went  back  to  her  close  little  room  over  the  engines 
and  cried  a  little,  very  quietly. 

It  was  unfortunate  that  he  did  not  explain  the 
presence  of  the  stewardess  to  the  girl.  For  when  it 
was  all  over,  and  she  had  stood  rather  awed  before 
his  mother's  picture,  and  rather  to  his  surprise  had 
smoothed  her  hair  with  one  of  his  brushes,  she  turned 
to  him  outside  the  door. 

"That  stewardess  has  a  lot  of  nerve,"  she  said. 
"The  idea  of  standing  in  the  doorway,  rubbering!" 

"I  asked  her,"  he  explained.  "I  thought  you'd 
prefer  having  some  one  there." 

She  stared  at  him. 


ii 

Lethway  had  won  the  ship's  pool  that  day.  In 
the  evening  he  played  bridge,  and  won  again.  He 
had  been  drinking  a  little.  Not  much,  but  enough 
to  make  him  reckless. 


266  LOVE  STORIES 

For  the  last  rubber  or  two  the  thought  of  Edith 
had  obsessed  him,  her  hand  on  the  rail  as  he  had 
kissed  it,  her  cool  eyes  that  were  at  once  so  wise  and  so 
ignorant,  her  lithe  body  in  the  short  skirt  and  middy 
blouse.  He  found  her  more  alluring,  so  attired,  than 
she  had  been  in  the  scant  costume  of  what  to  him 
was  always  "the  show." 

He  pondered  on  that  during  all  of  a  dummy  hand, 
sitting  low  in  his  chair  with  his  feet  thrust  far  under 
the  table.  The  show  business  was  going  to  the  bad. 
Why?  Because  nobody  connected  with  it  knew 
anything  about  human  nature.  He  formulated  a 
plan,  compounded  of  liquor  and  real  business  acu- 
men, of  dressing  a  chorus,  of  suggesting  the  fem- 
inine form  instead  of  showing  it,  of  veiling  it  in 
chiffons  of  soft  colours  and  sending  a  draft  of  air 
from  electric  fans  in  the  wings  to  set  the  chiffons  in 
motion. 

"Like  the  Aurora,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Only  not 
so  beefy.  Ought  to  be  a  hit.  Pretty?  It  will  be 
the  real  thing!" 

The  thought  of  Edith  in  such  a  costume,  playing 
like  a  dryad  over  the  stage,  stayed  with  him  when 
the  dummy  hand  had  been  played  and  he  had  been 
recalled  to  the  game  by  a  thump  on  the  shoulder. 
Edith  in  soft,  pastel-coloured  chiffons,  dancing  in 
bare  feet  to  light  string  music.  A  forest  setting,  of 
course.    Pan.    A  goat  or  two.    All  that  sort  of  thing. 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  267 

On  his  way  down  to  his  cabin  he  passed  her  door. 
He  went  on,  hesitated,  came  back  and  knocked. 

Now  Edith  had  not  been  able  to  sleep.  Her  thrifty 
soul,  trained  against  waste,  had  urged  her  not  'to 
fling  her  cigarettes  overboard,  but  to  smoke  them. 

"And  then  never  again,"  she  said  solemnly. 

The  result  was  that  she  could  not  get  to  sleep. 
Blanketed  to  the  chin  she  lay  in  her  bunk,  reading. 
The  book  had  been  Mabel's  farewell  offering,  a  thing 
of  perverted  ideals,  or  none,  of  cheap  sentiment,  of 
erotic  thought  overlaid  with  words.  The  immediate 
result  of  it,  when  she  yawned  at  last  and  turned 
out  the  light  over  her  bed,  was  a  new  light  on  the 
boy. 

"Little  prig!"  she  said  to  herself,  and  stretched 
her  round  arms  luxuriously  above  her  head. 

Then  Lethway  rapped.  She  sat  up  and  listened. 
Then,  grumbling,  she  got  out  and  opened  the  door 
an  inch  or  two.  The  lights  were  low  outside  and 
her  own  cabin  dark.     But  she  knew  him. 

"Are  we  chased*?"  she  demanded.  In  the  back  of 
her  mind,  fear  of  pursuit  by  a  German  submarine 
was  dogging  her  across  the  Atlantic. 

"Sure  we  are !"  he  said.  "What  are  you  so  stingy 
about  the  door  for?" 

She  recognised  his  condition  out  of  a  not  incon- 
siderable experience  and  did  her  best  to  force  the 
door  shut,  but  he  put  his  foot  over  the  sill  and  smiled. 


268  LOVE  STORIES 

"Please  go  away,  Mr.  Lethway." 

"I'll  go  if  you'll  kiss  me  good  night." 

She  calculated  the  situation,  and  surrendered. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  But  when  she  up- 
turned her  face  he  slipped  past  her  and  into  the 
room.  Just  inside  the  door,  swinging  open  and  shut 
with  every  roll  of  the  ship,  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her,  not  once  but  many  times. 

She  did  not  lose  her  head.  She  had  an  arm  free 
and  she  rang  the  bell.    Then  she  jerked  herself  loose. 

"I  have  rung  for  the  stewardess,"  she  said  fu- 
riously. "If  you  are  here  when  she  comes  I'll  ask 
for  help." 

"You  young  devil!"  was  all  he  said,  and  went, 
slamming  the  door  behind  him.  His  rage  grew  as  he 
reached  his  own  cabin.  Damn  the  girl,  anyhow! 
He  had  not  meant  anything.  Here  he  was,  spending 
money  he  might  never  get  back  to  give  her  a  chance, 
and  she  called  the  stewardess  because  he  kissed  her! 

As  for  the  girl,  she  went  back  to  bed.  For  a  few 
moments  sheer  rage  kept  her  awake.  Then  youth 
and  fatigue  triumphed  and  she  fell  asleep.  Her  last 
thought  was  of  the  boy,  after  all.  "He  wouldn't  do 
a  thing  like  that,"  she  reflected.  "He's  a  gentleman. 
He's  the  real  thing.    He's " 

Her  eyes  closed. 

Lethway  apologised  the  next  day,  apologised  with 
an  excess  of  manner  that  somehow  made  the  apology 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  269 

as  much  of  an  insult  as  the  act.  But  she  matched 
him  at  that  game — took  her  cue  from  him,  even  went 
him  one  better  as  to  manner.  When  he  left  her  he 
had  begun  to  feel  that  she  was  no  unworthy  antagon- 
ist. The  game  would  be  interesting.  And  she  had 
the  advantage,  if  she  only  knew  it.  Back  of  his  de- 
sire to  get  back  at  her,  back  of  his  mocking  smile  and 
half-closed  eyes,  he  was  just  a  trifle  mad  about  her 
since  the  night  before. 

That  is  the  way  things  stood  when  they  reached 
the  Mersey.  Cecil  was  in  love  with  the  girl.  Very 
earnestly  in  love.  He  did  not  sleep  at  night  for 
thinking  about  her.  He  remembered  certain  semi- 
harmless  escapades  of  his  college  days,  and  called 
himself  unworthy  and  various  other  things.  He 
scourged  himself  by  leaving  her  alone  in  her  steam- 
er chair  and  walking  by  at  stated  intervals.  Once,  in 
a  white  sweater  over  a  running  shirt,  he  went  to  the 
gymnasium  and  found  her  there.  She  had  on  a  "gym" 
suit  of  baggy"  bloomers  and  the  usual  blouse.  He 
backed  away  from  the  door  hastily. 

At  first  he  was  jealous  of  Lethway.  Then  that 
passed.  She  confided  to  him  that  she  did  not  like 
the  manager.  After  that  he  was  sorry  for  him.  He 
was  sorry  for  any  one  she  did  not  like.  He  bothered 
Lethway  by  walking  the  deck  with  him  and  looking 
at  him  with  what  Lethway  refused  to  think  was 
compassion. 


270  LOVE  STORIES 

But  because,  contrary  to  the  boy's  belief,  none  of 
us  is  quite  good  or  quite  evil,  he  was  kind  to  the  boy. 
The  khaki  stood  for  something  which  no  Englishman 
could  ignore. 

"Poor  little  devil !"  he  said  on  the  last  day  in  the 
smoking  room,  "he's  going  to  a  bad  time,  all  right. 
I  was  in  Africa  for  eight  years.  Boer  war  and  the 
rest  of  it.  Got  run  through  the  thigh  in  a  native  up- 
rising, and  they  won't  have  me  now.  But  Africa 
was  cheery  to  this  war." 

He  asked  the  boy  into  the  smoking  room,  which  he 
had  hitherto  avoided.  He  had  some  queer  idea  that 
he  did  not  care  to  take  his  uniform  in  there.  Absurd, 
of  course.  It  made  him  rather  lonely  in  the  hours 
Edith  spent  in  her  cabin,  preparing  variations  of 
costume  for  the  evening  out  of  her  small  trunk.  But 
he  was  all  man,  and  he  liked  the  society  of  men ;  so 
he  went  at  last,  with  Lethway,  and  ordered  vichy! 

He  h  d  not  allowed  himself  to  think  much  beyond 
the  end  of  the  voyage.  As  the  ship  advanced,  war 
seemed  to  slip  beyond  the  edge  of  his  horizon.  Even 
at  night,  as  he  lay  and  tossed,  his  thoughts  were 
either  of  the  next  day,  when  he  would  see  Edith 
again,  or  of  that  indefinite  future  when  he  would  re- 
turn, covered  with  honors,  and  go  to  her,  wherever 
she  was. 

He  never  doubted  the  honors  now.  He  had  some- 
thing to  fight  for.    The  medals  in  their  cases  looked 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  271 

paltry  to  him,  compared  with  what  was  coming.  In 
his  sleep  he  dreamed  of  the  V.C.,  dreams  he  was  too 
modest  to  put  into  thoughts  in  waking  hours. 

Then  they  reached  the  Mersey.  On  the  last  eve- 
ning of  the  voyage  he  and  Edith  stood  on  the  upper 
deck.  It  was  a  zone  of  danger.  From  each  side  of  the 
narrowing  river  flashlights  skimmed  the  surface  of 
the  water,  playing  round  but  never  on  the  darkened 
ship.  Red  and  green  lights  blinked  signals.  Their 
progress  was  a  devious  one  through  the  mine-strewn 
channel.  There  was  a  heavy  sea  even  there,  and  the 
small  lights  on  the  mast  on  the  pilot  boat,  as  it  came 
to  a  stop,  described  great  arcs  that  seemed,  first  to 
starboard,  then  to  port,  to  touch  the  very  tips  of  the 
waves. 

"I'm  not  crazy  about  this,"  the  girl  said,  as  the 
wind  tugged  at  her  skirts.  "It  frightens  me.  Brings 
the  war  pretty  close,  doesn't  it*?" 

Emotion  swelled  his  heart  and  made  him  husky — 
love  and  patriotism,  pride  and  hope,  and  a  hot  burst 
of  courage. 

"What  if  we  strike  a  mine?'  she  asked. 

"I  wouldn't  care  so  much.  It  would  give  me  a 
chance  to  save  you." 

Overhead  they  were  signalling  the  shore  with  a 
white  light.  Along  with  the  new  emotions  that  were 
choking  him  came  an  unaccustomed  impulse  of  boast- 
fulness. 


272 LOVE  STORIES 

"I  can  read  that,"  he  said  when  she  ignored  his 
offer  to  save  her.  "Of  course  it's  code,  but  I  can  spell 
it  out.'' 

He  made  a  move  to  step  forward  and  watch  the 
signaler,  but  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  go.    I'm  nervous,  Cecil,"  she  said. 

She  had  called  him  by  his  first  name.  It  shook 
him  profoundly,  that  and  the  touch  of  her  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"Oh,  I  love  you,  love  you !"  he  said  hoarsely.  But 
he  did  not  try  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  or  attempt  to 
caress  the  hand  that  still  clung  to  him.  He  stood 
very  erect,  looking  at  the  shadowy  outline  of  her. 
Then,  her  long  scarf  blowing  toward  him,  he  took 
the  end  of  it  and  kissed  that  very  gravely. 

"I  would  die  for  you,"  he  said. 

Then  Lethway  joined  them. 

in 

London  was  not  kind  to  him.  He  had  felt,  like 
many  Canadians,  that  in  going  to  England  he  was 
going  home.     But  England  was  cold. 

Not  the  people  on  the  streets.  They  liked  the 
Canadians  and  they  cheered  them  when  their  own 
regiments  went  by  unhailed.  It  appealed  to  their 
rampant  patriotism  that  these  men  had  come  from 
across   the   sea   to  join   hands    with   them   against 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  273 

common  foe.  But  in  the  clubs,  where  his  letters  ad- 
mitted the  boy,  there  was  a  different  atmosphere. 
Young  British  officers  were  either  cool  or,  much 
worse,  patronising.  They  were  inclined  to  suspect 
that  his  quiet  confidence  was  swanking.  One  day  at 
luncheon  he  drank  a  glass  of  wine,  not  because  he 
wanted  it  but  because  he  did  not  like  to  refuse.  The 
result  was  unfortunate.  It  loosened  his  tongue  a  bit, 
and  he  mentioned  the  medals. 

Not  noisily,  of  course.  In  an  offhand  manner,  to 
his  next  neighbor.  It  went  round  the  table,  and  a 
sort  of  icy  silence,  after  that,  greeted  His  small  sallies. 
He  never  knew  what  the  trouble  was,  but  his  heart 
was  heavy  in  him. 

And  it  rained. 

It  was  always  raining.  He  had  very  little  money 
beyond  his  pay,  and  the  constant  hiring  of  taxicabs 
worried  him.  Now  and  then  he  saw  some  one  he 
knew,  down  from  Salisbury  for  a  holiday,  but  they 
had  been  over  long  enough  to  know  their  way  about. 
They  had  engagements,  things  to  buy.  He  fairly 
ate  his  heart  out  in  sheer  loneliness. 

There  were  two  hours  in  the  day  that  redeemed 
the  others.  One  was  the  hour  late  in  the  afternoon 
when,  rehearsal  over,  he  took  Edith  O'Hara  to  tea. 
The  other  was  just  before  he  went  to  bed,  when  he 
wrote  her  the  small  note  that  reached  her  every 
morning  with  her  breakfast. 


274  LOVE  STORIES 

In  the  seven  days  before  he  joined  his  regiment 
at  Salisbury  he  wrote  her  seven  notes.  They  were 
candid,  boyish  scrawls,  not  love  letters  at  all.  This 
was  one  of  them : 

Dear  Edith:  I  have  put  in  a  rotten  evening  and 
am  just  going  to  bed.  I  am  rather  worried  because  you 
looked  so  tired  to-day.    Please  don't  work  too  hard. 

I  am  only  writing  to  say  how  I  look  forward  each 
night  to  seeing  you  the  next  day.  I  am  sending  with 
this  a  small  bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley.  They  re- 
mind me  of  you.  Cecil. 

The  girl  saved  those  letters.  She  was  not  in  love 
with  him,  but  he  gave  her  something  no  one  else  had 
ever  offered :  a  chivalrous  respect  that  pleased  as  well 
as  puzzled  her. 

Once  in  a  tea  shop  he  voiced  his  creed,  as  it  per- 
tained to  her,  over  a  plate  of  muffins. 

"When  we  are  both  back  home,  Edith,"  he  said, 
"I  am  going  to  ask  you  something." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"Because  it  wouldn't  be  quite  fair  to  you.  I — I 
may  be  killed,  or  something.  That's  one  thing. 
Then,  it's  because  of  your  people." 

That  rather  stunned  her.  She  had  no  people.  She 
was  going  to  tell  him  that,  but  she  decided  not  to. 
She  felt  quite  sure  that  he  considered  "people"  es- 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  275 

sential,  and  though  she  felt  that,  for  any  long  period 
of  time,  these  queer  ideas  and  scruples  of  his  would 
be  difficult  to  live  up  to,  she  intended  to  do  it  for 
that  one  week. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  she  said,  meekly  enough. 

She  felt  very  tender  toward  him  after  that,  and 
her  new  gentleness  made  it  all  hard  for  him.  She 
caught  him  looking  at  her  wistfully  at  times,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  he  was  not  looking  well.  His  eyes 
were  hollow,  his  face  thin.  She  put  her  hand  over 
his  as  it  lay  on  the  table. 

"Look  here,"  she  said,  "you  look  half  sick,  or 
worried,  or  something.  Stop  telling  me  to  take  care 
of  myself,  and  look  after  yourself  a  little  better." 

"Fm  all  right,"  he  replied.  Then  soon  after: 
"Everything's  strange.  That's  the  trouble,"  he  con^ 
fessed.  "It's  only  in  little  things  that  don't  matter, 
but  a  fellow  feels  such  a  duffer." 

On  the  last  night  he  took  her  to  dinner — a  small 
French  restaurant  in  a  back  street  in  Soho.  He  had 
heard  about  it  somewhere.  Edith  classed  it  as  soon 
as  she  entered.  It  was  too  retiring,  too  demure.  Its 
very  location  was  clandestine. 

But  he  never  knew.  He  was  divided  that  night 
between  joy  at  getting  to  his  regiment  and  grief  at 
leaving  her.     Rather  self-engrossed,  she  thought. 

They  had  a  table  by  an  open  grate  fire,  with  a 
screen  "to  shut  off  the  draft,"  the  waiter  said.     It 


276  LOVE  STORIES 

gave  the  modest  meal  a  delightfully  homey  air,  their 
isolation  and  the  bright  coal  fire.  For  the  first  time 
they  learned  the  joys  of  mussels  boiled  in  milk,  of 
French  souffle  and  other  things. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening  he  took  her  back  to  her 
cheap  hotel  in  a  taxicab.  She  expected  him  to  kiss 
her.  Her  experience  of  taxicabs  had  been  like  that. 
But  he  did  not.  He  said  very  little  on  the  way 
home,  but  sat  well  back  and  eyed  her  wistful  eyes. 
She  chattered  to  cover  his  silence — of  rehearsals,  of 
— with  reservations — of  Lethway,  of  the  anticipated 
London  opening.  She  felt  very  sad  herself.  He  had 
been  a  tie  to  America,  and  he  had  been  much  more 
than  that.  Though  she  did  not  realise  it,  he  had  had 
a  profound  effect  on  her.  In  trying  to  seem  what  he 
thought  her  she  was  becoming  what  he  thought 
her.  Her  old  reckless  attitude  toward  life  was  gone, 
or  was  going. 

The  day  before  she  had  refused  an  invitation  to  a 
night  club,  and  called  herself  a  fool  for  doing  it.  But 
she  had  refused. 

Not  that  he  had  performed  miracles  with  her.  She 
was  still  frankly  a  dweller  on  the  neutral  ground. 
But  to  that  instinct  that  had  kept  her  up  to  that  time 
what  she  would  have  called  "straight"  had  been  add- 
ed a  new  refinement.  She  was  no  longer  the  reckless 
and  romping  girl  whose  abandon  had  caught  Leth- 
wav's  eve. 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  277 

She  had  gained  a  soul,  perhaps,  and  lost  a  liveli- 
hood. 

When  they  reached  the  hotel  he  got  out  and  went 
in  with  her.  The  hall  porter  was  watching  and  she 
held  out  her  hand.    But  he  shook  his  head. 

"If  I  touched  your  hand,"  he  said,  "I  would  have 
to  take  you  in  my  arms.    Good-bye,  dear." 

"Good-bye,"  she  said.  There  were  tears  in  her 
eyes.  It  was  through  a  mist  that  she  saw  him,  as  the 
elevator  went  up,  standing  at  salute,  his  eyes  follow- 
ing her  until  she  disappeared  from  sight. 

IV 

Things  were  going  wrong  with  Lethway.  The 
management  was  ragging  him,  for  one  thing. 

"Give  the  girl  time,"  he  said  almost  viciously,  at 
the  end  of  a  particularly  bad  rehearsal.  "She's  had 
a  long  voyage  and  she's  tired.  Besides,"  he  added, 
"these  acts  never  do  go  at  rehearsal.  Give  me  a 
good  house  at  the  opening  and  she'll  show  you  what 
she  can  do." 

But  in  his  soul  he  was  worried.  There  was  a 
change  in  Edith  O'Hara.  Even  her  voice  had  altered. 
It  was  not  only  her  manner  to  him.  That  was 
marked  enough,  but  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders 
over  it.  Time  enough  for  that  when  the  production 
was  on. 


278  LOVE  STORIES 

He  had  engaged  a  hoyden,  and  she  was  by  way  of 
becoming  a  lady.  During  the  first  week  or  so  he  had 
hoped  that  it  was  only  the  strangeness  of  her  sur- 
roundings. He  had  been  shrewd  enough  to  lay  some 
of  it,  however,  to  Cecil's  influence. 

"When  your  soldier  boy  gets  out  of  the  way/'  he 
sneered  one  day  in  the  wings,  "perhaps  you'll  get 
down  to  earth  and  put  some  life  in  your  work." 

But  to  his  dismay  she  grew  steadily  worse.  Her 
dancing  was  delicate,  accurate,  even  graceful,  but 
the  thing  the  British  public  likes  to  think  typically 
American,  a  sort  of  breezy  swagger,  was  gone.  To 
bill  her  in  her  present  state  as  the  Madcap  American 
would  be  sheer  folly. 

Ten  days  before  the  opening  he  cabled  for  another 
girl  to  take  her  place. 

He  did  not  tell  her.  Better  to  let  her  work  on,  he 
decided.  A  German  submarine  might  sink  the  ship 
on  which  the  other  girl  was  coming,  and  then  where 
would  they  be  ? 

Up  to  the  last,  however,  he  had  hopes  of  Edith. 
Not  that  he  cared  to  save  her.  But  he  hated  to  ac- 
knowledge a  failure.  He  disliked  to  disavow  his 
own  judgment. 

He  made  a  final  effort  with  her,  took  her  one  day 
to  luncheon  at  Simpson's,  and  in  one  of  the  pewlike 
compartments,  over  mutton  and  caper  sauce,  he  tried 
to  "talk  a  little  life  into  her." 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  279 

"What  the  devil  has  come  over  you*?"  he  de- 
manded savagely.  "You  were  larky  enough  over  in 
New  York.  There  are  any  number  of  girls  in  Lon- 
don who  can  do  what  you  are  doing  now,  and  do 
it  better." 

"I'm  doing  just  what  I  did  in  New  York." 

"The  hell  you  are !  I  could  do  what  you're  doing 
with  a  jointed  doll  and  some  wires.  Now  see  here, 
Edith,"  he  said,  "either  you  put  some  go  into  the 
thing,  or  you  go.    That's  flat." 

Her  eyes  filled. 

"I — maybe  I'm  worried,"  she  said.  "Ever  since 
I  found  out  that  I've  signed  up,  with  no  arrangement 
about  sending  me  back,  it's  been  on  my  mind." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that." 

"But  if  they  put  some  one  on  in  my  place*?" 

"You  needn't  worry  about  that  either.  I'll  look 
after  you.  You  know  that.  If  I  hadn't  been  crazy 
about  you  I'd  have  let  you  go  a  week  ago.  You  know 
that  too." 

She  knew  the  tone,  knew  instantly  where  she 
stood.  Knew,  too,  that  she  would  not  play  the  first 
night  in  London.  She  went  rather  white,  but  she 
faced  him  coolly. 

"Don't  look  like  that,"  he  said.  "I'm  only  telling 
you  that  if  you  need  a  friend  I'll  be  there." 

It  was  two  days  before  the  opening,  however, 
when  the  blow  fell.     She  had  not  been  sleeping, 


280  LOVE  STORIES 

partly  from  anxiety  about  herself,  partly  about  the 
boy.  Every  paper  she  picked  up  was  full  of  the 
horrors  of  war.  There  were  columns  filled  with  the 
names  of  those  who  had  fallen.  Somehow  even  his 
uniform  had  never  closely  connected  the  boy  with 
death  in  her  mind.    He  seemed  so  young. 

She  had  had  a  feeling  that  his  very  youth  would 
keep  him  from  danger.  War  to  her  was  a  faintly 
conceived  struggle  between  men,  and  he  was  a  boy. 

But  here  were  boys  who  had  died,  boys  at  nine- 
teen. And  the  lists  of  missing  startled  her.  One 
morning  she  read  in  the  personal  column  a  query, 
asking  if  any  one  could  give  the  details  of  the  death 
of  a  young  subaltern.  She  cried  over  that.  In  all 
her  care-free  life  never  before  had  she  wept  over  the 
griefs  of  others. 

Cecil  had  sent  her  his  photograph  taken  in  his 
uniform.  Because  he  had  had  it  taken  to  give  her 
he  had  gazed  directly  into  the  eye  of  the  camera. 
When  she  looked  at  it  it  returned  her  glance.  She 
took  to  looking  at  it  a  great  deal. 

Two  days  before  the  opening  she  turned  from  a 
dispirited  rehearsal  to  see  Mabel  standing  in  the 
wings.    Then  she  knew.    The  end  had  come. 

Mabel  was  jaunty,  but  rather  uneasy. 

"You  poor  dear!"  she  said,  when  Edith  went  to 
her.  "What  on  earth's  happened"?  The  cable  only 
said — honest,  dearie,  I  feel  like  a  dog!" 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  281 

"They  don't  like  me.  That's  all,"  she  replied 
wearily,  and  picked  up  her  hat  and  jacket  from  a 
chair.  But  Mabel  was  curious.  Uncomfortable, 
too,  as  she  had  said.  She  slipped  an  arm  round 
Edith's  waist. 

"Say  the  word  and  I'll  throw  them  down,"  she 
cried.  "It  looks  like  dirty  work  to  me.  And  you're 
thin.    Honest,  dearie,  I  mean  it." 

Her  loyalty  soothed  the  girl's  sore  spirit. 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  over  me,"  she  said. 
"I've  tried  hard  enough.  But  I'm  always  tired. 
I — I  think  it's  being  so  close  to  the  war." 

Mabel  stared  at  her.  There  was  a  war.  She  knew 
that.  The  theatrical  news  was  being  crowded  to  a 
back  page  to  make  space  for  disagreeable  diagrams 
and  strange,  throaty  names. 

"I  know.     It's  fierce,  isn't  it'?"  she  said. 

Edith  took  her  home,  and  they  talked  far  into  the 
night.  She  had  slipped  Cecil's  picture  into  the 
wardrobe  before  she  turned  on  the  light.  Then  she 
explained  the  situation. 

"It's  pep  they  want,  is  it*?"  said  Mabel  at  last. 
"Well,  believe  me,  honey,  I'll  give  it  to  them.  And 
as  long  as  I've  got  a  cent  it's  yours." 

They  slept  together  in  Edith's  narrow  bed,  two 
slim  young  figures  delicately  flushed  with  sleep.  As 
pathetic,  had  they  known  it,  as  those  other  sleepers 


282  LOVE  STORIES 

in  their  untidy  billets  across  the  channel.    Almost  as 
hopeless  too.    Dwellers  in  the  neutral  ground. 


Now  war,  after  all,  is  to  each  fighting  man  an 
affair  of  small  numbers,  an  affair  of  the  men  to 
his  right  and  his  left,  of  the  A.  M.  S.  C.  in  the 
rear  and  of  a  handful  of  men  across.  On  his  days 
of  rest  the  horizon  is  somewhat  expanded.  It  be- 
comes then  a  thing  of  crowded  and  muddy  village 
streets,  of  food  and  drink  and  tobacco  and  a  place 
to  sleep. 

Always,  of  course,  it  is  a  thing  of  noises. 

This  is  not  a  narrative  of  war.  It  matters  very 
little,  for  instance,  how  Cecil's  regiment  left  Salis- 
bury and  went  to  Soissons,  in  France.  What  really 
matters  is  that  at  last  the  Canadian-made  motor 
lorries  moved  up  their  equipment,  and  that,  after 
digging  practice  trenches  in  the  yellow  clay  of  old 
battlefields,  they  were  moved  up  to  the  front. 

Once  there,  there  seemed  to  be  a  great  deal  of 
time.  It  was  the  lull  before  Neuve  Chapelle.  Cecil's 
spirit  grew  heavy  with  waiting.  Once,  back  on  rest 
at  his  billet,  he  took  a  long  walk  over  the  half- frozen 
side  roads  and  came  without  warning  on  a  main  ar- 
tery. Three  traction  engines  were  taking  to  the  front 
the  first  of  the  great  British  guns,  so  long  awaited. 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  283 

He  took  the  news  back  to  his  mess.  The  general  ver- 
dict was  that  there  would  be  something  doing  now. 

Cecil  wrote  a  letter  to  Edith  that  day.  He  had 
written  before,  of  course,  but  this  was  different.  He 
wrote  first  to  his  mother,  just  in  case  anything  hap- 
pened, a  long,  boyish  letter  with  a  misspelled  word 
here  and  there.  He  said  he  was  very  happy  and 
very  comfortable,  and  that  if  he  did  get  his  he  wanted 
her  to  know  that  it  was  all  perfectly  cheerful  and 
not  anything  like  the  war  correspondents  said  it  was. 
He'd  had  a  bully  time  all  his  life,  thanks  to  her. 
He  hadn't  let  her  know  often  enough  how  he  felt 
about  her,  and  she  knew  he  was  a  dub  at  writing. 
There  were  a  great  many  things  worse  than  "going 
out"  in  a  good  fight.  "It  isn't  at  all  as  if  you  could 
see  the  blooming  thing  coming,"  he  wrote.  "You 
never  know  it's  after  you  until  you've  got  it,  and 
then  you  don't." 

The  letter  was  not  to  be  sent  unless  he  was  killed. 
So  he  put  in  a  few  anecdotes  to  let  her  know  exactly 
how  happy  and  contented  he  was.  Then  he  dropped 
the  whole  thing  in  the  ten  inches  of  mud  and  water 
he  was  standing  in,  and  had  to  copy  it  all  over. 

To  Edith  he  wrote  a  different  sort  of  letter.  He 
told  her  that  he  loved  her.  "It's  almost  more  adora- 
tion than  love,"  he  wrote,  while  two  men  next  to 
him  were  roaring  over  a  filthy  story.  "I  mean  by 
that,  that  I  feel  every  hour  of  every  day  how  far 


284  LOVE  STORIES 

above  me  you  are.  It's  like  one  of  these  fusees  the 
Germans  are  always  throwing  up  over  us  at  night. 
It's  perfectly  dark,  and  then  something  bright  and 
clear  and  like  a  star,  only  nearer,  is  overhead.  Every- 
thing looks  different  while  it  floats  there.  And  so, 
my  dear,  my  dear,  everything  has  been  different  to 
me  since  I  knew  you." 

Rather  boyish,  all  of  it,  but  terribly  earnest.  He 
said  he  had  wanted  to  ask  her  to  marry  him,  but 
that  the  way  he  felt  about  it,  a  fellow  had  no  right 
to  ask  a  girl  such  a  thing  when  he  was  going  to  a 
war.  If  he  came  back  he  would  ask  her.  And  he 
would  love  her  all  his  life. 

The  next  day,  at  dawn,  he  went  out  with  eighty 
men  to  an  outpost  that  had  been  an  abandoned  farm. 
It  was  rather  a  forlorn  hope.  They  had  one  machine 
gun.  At  nine  o'clock  the  enemy  opened  fire  on  them 
and  followed  it  by  an  attack.  The  major  in  charge 
went  down  early.  At  two  Cecil  was  standing  in  the 
loft  of  the  farmhouse,  firing  with  a  revolver  on  men 
who  beneath  him,  outside,  were  placing  dynamite 
under  a  corner  of  the  building. 

To  add  to  the  general  hopelessness,  their  own 
artillery,  believing  them  all  dead,  opened  fire  on  the 
building.  They  moved  their  wounded  to  the  cellar 
and  kept  on  fighting. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  Cecil's  right  arm  was 
hanging  helpless,   and   the  building  was  burning 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  285 

merrily.    There  were  five  of  them  left.    They  fixed 
bayonets  and  charged  the  open  door. 

When  the  boy  opened  his  eyes  he  was  lying  in  six 
inches  of  manure  in  a  box  car.  One  of  his  men  was 
standing  over  him,  keeping  him  from  being  trampled 
on.  There  was  no  air  and  no  water.  The  ammonia 
fumes  from  the  manure  were  stifling. 

The  car  lurched  and  jolted  along.  Cecil  opened 
his  eyes  now  and  then,  and  at  first  he  begged  for 
water.  When  he  found  there  was  none  he  lay  still. 
The  men  hammered  on  the  door  and  called  for  air. 
They  made  frantic,  useless  rushes  at  the  closed  and 
barred  door.  Except  Cecil,  all  were  standing.  They 
were  herded  like  cattle,  and  there  was  no  room  to 
lie  or  sit. 

He  lay  there,  drugged  by  weakness.  He  felt  quite 
sure  that  he  was  dying,  and  death  was  not  so  bad. 
He  voiced  this  feebly  to  the  man  who  stood  over 
him. 

"It's  not  so  bad,"  he  said. 

"The  hell  it's  not!"  said  the  man. 

For  the  time  Edith  was  effaced  from  his  mind.  He 
remembered  the  wounded  men  left  in  the  cellar  with 
the  building  burning  over  them.  That,  and  days  at 
home,  long  before  the  war. 

Once  he  said  "Mother."  The  soldier  who  was  now 
standing  astride  of  him,  the  better  to  keep  off  the 


286 LOVE  STORIES 

crowding  men,  thought  he  was  asking  for  water 
again. 

Thirty  hours  of  that,  and  then  air  and  a  little 
water.  Not  enough  water.  Not  all  the  water  in  all 
the  cool  streams  of  the  earth  would  have  slaked  the 
thirst  of  his  wound. 

The  boy  was  impassive.  He  was  living  in  the 
past.  One  day  he  recited  at  great  length  the  story 
of  his  medals.    No  one  listened. 

And  all  the  time  his  right  arm  lay  or  hung,  as  he 
was  prone  or  erect,  a  strange  right  arm  that  did  not 
belong  to  him.  It  did  not  even  swell.  When  he 
touched  it  the  ringers  were  cold  and  bluish.  It  felt 
like  a  dead  hand. 

Then,  at  the  end  of  it  all,  was  a  bed,  and  a 
woman's  voice,  and  quiet. 

The  woman  was  large  and  elderly,  and  her  eyes 
were  very  kind.  She  stirred  something  in  the  boy 
that  had  been  dead  of  pain. 

"Edith!"  he  said. 


VI 

Mabel  had  made  a  hit.  Unconscious  imitator 
that  she  was,  she  stole  Edith's  former  reckless- 
ness, and  added  to  it  something  of  her  own  dash 
and  verve.  Lethway,  standing  in  the  wings,  knew 
she  was  not  and  never  would  be  Edith.    She  was  not 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  287 

fine  enough.  Edith  at  her  best  had  frolicked.  Mabel 
romped,  was  almost  wanton.  He  cut  out  the  string 
music  at  the  final  rehearsal.    It  did  not  fit. 

On  the  opening  night  the  brass  notes  of  the  orches- 
tra blared  and  shrieked.  Mabel's  bare  feet  flew,  her 
loose  hair,  cut  to  her  ears  and  held  only  by  a  band 
over  her  forehead,  kept  time  in  ecstatic  little  jerks. 
When  at  last  she  pulled  off  the  fillet  and  bowed  to 
the  applause,  her  thick  short  hair  fell  over  her  face 
as  she  jerked  her  head  forward.  They  liked  that. 
It  savoured  of  the  abandoned.  She  shook  it  back, 
and  danced  the  encore  without  the  fillet.  With  her 
scant  chiffons  whirling  about  her  knees,  her  loose 
hair,  her  girlish  body,  she  was  the  embodiment  of 
young  love,  of  its  passion,  its  fire. 

Edith  had  been  spring,  palpitant  with  gladness. 

Lethway,  looking  with  tired  eyes  from  the  wings, 
knew  that  he  had  made  a  commercial  success.  But 
back  of  his  sordid  methods  there  was  something  of 
the  soul  of  an  artist.     And  this  rebelled. 

But  he  made  a  note  to  try  flame-coloured  chiffon 
for  Mabel.  Edith  was  to  have  danced  in  the  pale 
greens  of  a  water  nymph. 

On  the  night  of  her  triumph  Mabel  returned  late 
to  Edith's  room,  where  she  was  still  quartered.  She 
was  moving  the  next  day  to  a  small  apartment. 
With  the  generosity  of  her  class  she  had  urged  Edith 
to  join  her,  and  Edith  had  perforce  consented- 


288 LOVE  STORIES 

"How  did  it  go?"  Edith  asked  from  the  bed. 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Mabel.     "Nothing  unusual." 

She  turned  up  the  light,  and  from  her  radiant  re- 
flection in  the  mirror  Edith  got  the  truth.  She  lay 
back  with  a  dull,  sickening  weight  round  her  heart. 
Not  that  Mabel  had  won,  but  that  she  herself  had 
failed. 

"You're  awfully  late." 

"I  went  to  supper.  Wish  you'd  been  along, 
dearie.  Terribly  swell  club  of  some  sort."  Then  her 
good  resolution  forgotten :  "I  made  them  sit  up  and 
take  notice,  all  right.  Two  invitations  for  supper 
to-morrow  night  and  more  on  the  way.  And  when 
I  saw  I'd  got  the  house  going  to-night,  and  remem- 
bered what  I  was  being  paid  for  it,  it  made  me  sick." 

"It's  better  than  nothing." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Lethway  to  take  you  on  in 
the  chorus?  It  would  do  until  you  get  something 
else." 

"I  have  asked  him.    He  won't  do  it." 

Mabel  was  still  standing  in  front  of  the  mirror. 
She  threw  her  head  forward  so  her  short  hair  covered 
her  face,  and  watched  the  effect  carefully.  Then 
she  came  over  and  sat  on  the  bed. 

"He's  a  dirty  dog,"  she  said. 

The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other.  They  knew 
every  move  in  the  game  of  life,  and  Lethway's 
methods  were  familiar  ones. 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  289 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  Mabel 
demanded  at  last.  "Believe  me,  old  dear,  he's  got 
a  bad  eye.  Now  listen  here,"  she  said  with  im- 
pulsive generosity.  "I've  got  a  scheme.  I'll  draw 
enough  ahead  to  send  you  back.  I'll  do  it  to-morrow, 
while  the  drawing's  good." 

"And  queer  yourself  at  the  start?"  said  Edith 
scornfully.  "Talk  sense,  Mabel,  I'm  up  against  it, 
but  don't  you  worry.    I'll  get  something." 

But  she  did  not  get  anything.  She  was  reduced 
in  the  next  week  to  entire  dependence  on  the  other 
girl.  And,  even  with  such  miracles  of  management 
as  they  had  both  learned,  it  was  increasingly  difficult 
to  get  along. 

There  was  a  new  element  too.  Edith  was  incred- 
ulous at  first,  but  at  last  she  faced  it.  There  was  a 
:hange  in. Mabel.  She  was  not  less  hospitable  nor  less 
generous.  It  was  a  matter  of  a  point  of  view.  Suc- 
cess was  going  to  her  head.  Her  indignation  at  cer- 
tain phases  of  life  was  changing  to  tolerance.  She 
found  Edith's  rampant  virtue  a  trifle  wearing.  She 
took  to  staying  out  very  late,  and  coming  in  ready  to 
meet  Edith's  protest  with  defiant  gaiety.  She  bought 
clothes  too. 

"You'll  have  to  pay  for  them  sometime,"  Edith 
reminded  her. 

"I  should  worry.  I've  got  to  look  like  something 
if  I'm  going  to  go  out  at  all." 


290  LOVE  STORIES 

Edith,  who  had  never  thought  things  out  before, 
had  long  hours  to  think  now.  And  the  one  thing  that 
seemed  clear  and  undeniable  was  that  she  must  not 
drive  Mabel  into  debt.  Debt  was  the  curse  of  most 
of  the  girls  she  knew.  As  long  as  they  were  on  their 
own  they  could  manage.  It  was  the  burden  of  un- 
paid bills,  lightly  contracted,  tb  it  drove  so  many  of 
them  wrong. 

That  night,  while  Mabel  w  s  asleep,  she  got  up 
and  cautiously  lighted  the  gas.  Then  she  took  the 
boy's  photograph  out  of  its  hiding  place  and 
propped  it  on  top  of  her  trunk.  For  a  long  time 
she  sat  there,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  and  looked  at  it. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  she  saw  his  name  among 
the  missing. 

She  did  not  cry,  not  at  first.  The  time  came  when 
it  seemed  to  her  she  did  nothing  else.  But  at  first 
she  only  stared.  She  was  too  young  and  too  strong 
to  faint,  but  things  went  gray  for  her. 

And  gray  they  remained — through  long  spring 
days  and  eternal  nights — days  when  Mabel  slept  all 
morning,  rehearsed  or  played  in  the  afternoons,  was 
away  all  evening  and  far  into  the  night.  She  did 
not  eat  or  sleep.  She  spent  money  that  was  meant 
for  food  on  papers  and  journals  and  searched  for 
news.  She  made  a  frantic  but  ineffectual  effort  to 
get  into  the  War  Office. 

She  had  received  his  letter  two  days  after  she  had 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  291 

seen  his  name  among  the  missing.  She  had  hardly 
dared  to  open  it,  but  having  read  it,  for  days  she 
went  round  with  a  strange  air  of  consecration  that 
left  Mabel  uneasy. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  like  that !"  she  said  one 
morning.     "You  get  on  my  nerves." 

But  as  time  went  on  the  feeling  that  he  was  dead 
overcame  everything  else.  She  despaired,  rather 
than  grieved.  And  following  despair  came  reckless- 
ness. He  was  dead.  Nothing  else  mattered.  Leth- 
way,  meeting  her  one  day  in  Oxford  Circus,  almost 
passed  her  before  he  knew  her.    He  stopped  her  then. 

"Haven't  been  sick,  have  you*?" 

"Me<?    No." 

"There's  something  wrong." 

She  did  not  deny  it  and  he  fell  into  step  beside  her. 

"Doing  anything?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  With  all  the  power  that  was 
in  her  she  was  hating  his  tall  figure,  his  heavy- 
lashed  eyes,  even  the  familiar  ulster  he  wore. 

"I  wish  you  were  a  sensible  young  person,"  he 
said.  But  something  in  the  glance  she  gave  him 
forbade  his  going  on.  It  was  not  an  ugly  glance. 
Rather  it  was  cold,  appraising — even,  if  he  had 
known  it,  despairing. 

Lethway  had  been  busy.  She  had  been  in  the  back 
of  his  mind  rather  often,  but  other  things  had  crowd- 
ed her  out.    This  new  glimpse  of  her  fired  him  again, 


292  LOVE  STORIES 

however.  And  she  had  a  new  quality  that  thrilled 
even  through  the  callus  of  his  soul.  The  very  thing 
that  had  foredoomed  her  to  failure  in  the  theatre 
appealed  to  him  strongly — a  refinement,  a  something 
he  did  not  analyse. 

When  she  was  about  to  leave  him  he  detained  her 
with  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"You  know  you  can  always  count  on  me,  don't 
you*?"  he  said. 

"I  know  I  can't,"  she  flashed  back  at  him  with  a 
return  of  her  old  spirit. 

"I'm  crazy  about  you." 

"Old  stuff !"  she  said  coolly,  and  walked  off.  But 
there  was  a  tug  of  fear  at  her  heart.  She  told  Mabel, 
but  it  was  typical  of  the  change  that  Mabel  only 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

It  was  Leth way's  shrewdness  that  led  to  his  next 
move.  He  had  tried  bullying,  and  failed.  He  had 
tried  fear,  with  the  same  lack  of  effect.  Now  he  tried 
kindness. 

She  distrusted  him  at  first,  but  her  starved  heart 
was  crying  out  for  the  very  thing  he  offered  her.  As 
the  weeks  went  on,  with  no  news  of  Cecil,  she  accept- 
ed his  death  stoically  at  last.  Something  of  her  had 
died.  But  in  a  curious  way  the  boy  had  put  his  mark 
on  her.  And  as  she  grew  more  like  the  thing  he  had 
thought  her  to  be  the  gulf  between  Mabel  and  her- 
self widened.     They  had,  at  last,  only  in  common 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  293 

their  room,  their  struggle,  the  contacts  of  their  daily 
life. 

And  Lethway  was  now  always  in  the  background. 
He  took  her  for  quiet  meals  and  brought  her  home 
early.  He  promised  her  that  sometime  he  would  see 
that  she  got  back  home. 

"But  not  just  yet,"  he  added  as  her  colour  rose. 
"I'm  selfish,  Edith.  Give  me  a  little  time  to  be 
happy." 

That  was  a  new  angle.  It  had  been  a  part  of  the 
boy's  quiet  creed  to  make  others  happy. 

"Why  don't  you  give  me  something  to  do,  since 
you're  so  crazy  to  have  me  hanging  about?" 

"Can't  do  it.  I'm  not  the  management.  And 
they're  sore  at  you.  They  think  you  threw  them 
down."    He  liked  to  air  his  American  slang. 

Edith  cupped  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  looked  at 
him.  There  was  no  mystery  about  the  situation,  no 
shyness  in  the  eyes  with  which  she  appraised  him. 
She  was  beginning  to  like  him  too. 

That  night  when  she  got  back  to  Mabel's  apart- 
ment her  mood  was  reckless.  She  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  stood  looking  at  the  crooked  and  chimney- 
potted  skyline  that  was  London. 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  she  said  savagely,  and  gave 
up  the  fight. 

When  Mabel  came  home  she  told  her. 

"I'm  going  to  get  out,"  she  said  without  preamble. 


294  LOVE  STORIES 

She  caught  the  relief  in  Mabel's  face,  followed  by 
a  purely  conventional  protest. 

"Although,"  she  hedged  cautiously,  "I  don't  know, 
dearie.  People  look  at  things  sensibly  these  days. 
You've  got  to  live,  haven't  you4?  They're  mighty 
quick  to  jail  a  girl  who  tries  to  jump  in  the  river 
when  she's  desperate." 

"I'll  probably  end  there.    And  I  don't  much  care." 

Mabel  gave  her  a  good  talking  to  about  that.  Her 
early  training  had  been  in  a  church  which  regarded 
self-destruction  as  a  cardinal  sin.  Then  business 
acumen  asserted  itself : 

"He'll  probably  put  you  on  somewhere.  He's 
crazy  'about  you,  Ede." 

But  Edith  was  not  listening.  She  was  standing  in 
front  of  her  opened  trunk  tearing  into  small  pieces 
something  that  had  been  lying  in  the  tray. 

VII 

Now  the  boy  had  tried  very  hard  to  die,  and 
failed.  The  thing  that  had  happened  to  him  was 
an  unbelievable  thing.  When  he  began  to  use 
his  tired  faculties  again,  when  ths-  ward  became  not 
a  shadow  land  but  a  room,  and  the  nurse  not  a  pres- 
ence but  a  woman,  he  tried  feebly  to  move  his  right 
arm. 

But  it  was  gone. 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  295 

At  first  he  refused  to  believe  it.  He  could  feel  it 
lying  there  beside  him.  It  ached  and  throbbed.  Tne 
fingers  were  cramped.  But  when  he  looked  it  was 
not  there. 

There  was  not  one  shock  of  discovery,  but  many. 
For  each  time  he  roused  from  sleep  he  had  forgotten, 
and  must  learn  the  thing  again. 

The  elderly  German  woman  stayed  close.  She  was 
wise,  and  war  had  taught  her  many  things.  So  when 
he  opened  his  eyes  she  was  always  there.  She  talked 
to  him  very  often  of  his  mother,  and  he  listened  with 
his  eyes  on  her  face — eyes  like  those  of  a  sick  child. 

In  that  manner  they  got  by  the  first  few  days. 

' 'It  won't  make  any  difference  to  her,"  he  said 
once.  "She'd  take  me  back  if  I  was  only  a  frag- 
ment." Then  bitterly:  "That's  all  I  am — a  frag- 
ment !    A  part  of  a  man !" 

After  a  time  she  knew  that  there  was  a  some  one 
else,  some  one  he  was  definitely  relinquishing.  She 
dared  not  speak  to  him  about  it.  His  young  dignity 
was  militant.  But  one  night,  as  she  dozed  beside 
him  in  the  chair,  he  reached  the  limit  of  his  repression 
and  told  her. 

"An  actress !"  she  cried,  sitting  bolt  upright.  "Du 
lieber — an  actress !" 

"Not  an  actress,"  he  corrected  her  gravely.  "A 
— a  dancer.     But  good.     She's  a  very  good  girl. 


296  LOVE  STORIES 

Even  when  I  was — was  whole" — raging  bitterness 
there — "I  was  not  good  enough  for  her." 

"No  actress  is  good.    And  dancers !" 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  he 
said  roughly,  and  turned  his  back  to  her.  It  was  al- 
most insulting  to  have  her  assist  him  to  his  attitude 
of  contempt,  and  to  prop  him  in  it  with  pillows  be- 
hind his  back.  Lying  there  he  tried  hard  to  remem- 
ber that  this  woman  belonged  to  his  hereditary  foes. 
He  was  succeeding  in  hating  her  when  he  felt  her 
heavy  hand  on  his  head. 

"Poor  boy!  Poor  little  one!"  she  said.  And  her 
voice  was  husky. 

When  at  last  he  was  moved  from  the  hospital  to 
the  prison  camp  she  pinned  the  sleeve  of  his  ragged 
uniform  across  his  chest  and  kissed  him,  to  his  great 
discomfiture.  Then  she  went  to  the  curtained  corner 
that  was  her  quarters  and  wept  long  and  silently. 

The  prison  camp  was  overcrowded.  Early  mor- 
ning and  late  evening  prisoners  were  lined  up  to  be 
counted.  There  was  a  medley  of  languages — French, 
English,  Arabic,  Russian.  The  barracks  were  built 
round  a  muddy  inclosure  in  which  the  men  took  what 
exercise  they  could. 

One  night  a  boy  with  a  beautiful  tenor  voice  sang 
Auld  Lang  Syne  under  the  boy's  window.  He  stood 
with  his  hand  on  the  cuff  of  his  empty  sleeves  and 
listened.     And  suddenly  a  great  shame  filled  him, 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  297 

that  with  so  many  gone  forever,  with  men  dying 
every  minute  of  every  hour,  back  at  the  lines,  he  had 
been  so  obsessed  with  himself.  He  was  still  bitter, 
but  the  bitterness  was  that  he  could  not  go  back  again 
and  fight. 

When  he  had  been  in  the  camp  a  month  he  helped 
two  British  officers  to  escape.  One  of  them  had 
snubbed  him  in  London  months  before.  He  apol- 
ogised before  he  left. 

"You're  a  man,  Hamilton,"  he  said.  "All  you 
Canadians  are  men.  I've  some  things  to  tell  when  I 
get  home." 

The  boy  could  not  go  with  them.  There  would 
be  canals  to  swim  across,  and  there  was  his  empty 
sleeve  and  weakness.  He  would  never  swim  again, 
he  thought.  That  night,  as  he  looked  at  the  empty 
beds  of  the  men  who  had  gone,  he  remembered  his 
medals  and  smiled  grimly. 

He  was  learning  to  use  his  left  hand.  He  wrote 
letters  home  with  it  for  soldiers  who  could  not  write. 
He  went  into  the  prison  hospital  and  wrote  letters 
for  those  who  would  never  go  home.  But  he  did  not 
write  to  the  girl. 

He  went  back  at  last,  when  the  hopelessly 
wounded  were  exchanged.  To  be  branded  "hopeless- 
ly wounded"  was  to  him  a  stain,  a  stigma.     It  put 


298 LOVE  STORIES 

him  among  the  clutterers  of  the  earth.  It  stranded 
him  on  the  shore  of  life.    Hopelessly  wounded! 

For,  except  what  would  never  be  whole,  he  was 
well  again.  True,  confinement  and  poor  food  had 
kept  him  weak  and  white.  His  legs  had  a  way  of 
going  shaky  at  nightfall.  But  once  he  knocked  down 
an  insolent  Russian  with  his  left  hand,  and  began 
to  feel  his  own  man  again.  That  the  Russian  was 
weak  from  starvation  did  not  matter.  The  point  to 
the  boy  was  that  he  had  made  the  attempt. 

Providence  has  a  curious  way  of  letting  two  lives 
run  along,  each  apparently  independent  of  the  other. 
Parallel  lines  they  seem,  hopeless  of  meeting.  Con- 
verging lines  really,  destined,  through  long  ages,  by 
every  deed  that  has  been  done  to  meet  at  a  certain 
point  and  there  fuse. 

Edith  had  left  Mabel,  but  not  to  go  to  Lethway. 
When  nothing  else  remained  that  way  was  open. 
She  no  longer  felt  any  horror — only  a  great  distaste. 
But  two  weeks  found  her  at  her  limit.  She,  who  had 
rarely  had  more  than  just  enough,  now  had  nothing. 

And  no  glory  of  sacrifice  upheld  her.  She  no  longer 
believed  that  by  removing  the  burden  of  her  support 
she  could  save  Mabel.  It  was  clear  that  Mabel 
would  not  be  saved.  To  go  back  and  live  on  her, 
under  the  circumstances,  was  but  a  degree  removed 
from  the  other  thing  that  confronted  her. 

There  is  just  a  chance  that,  had  she  not  known  the 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  299 

boy,  she  would  have  killed  herself.  But  again  the 
curious  change  he  had  worked  in  her  manifested 
itself.    He  thought  suicide  a  wicked  thing. 

"I  take  it  like  this,"  he  had  said  in  his  eager  way: 
"life's  a  thing  that's  given  us  for  some  purpose. 
Maybe  the  purpose  gets  clouded — I'm  afraid  I'm  an 
awful  durTer  at  saying  what  I  mean.  But  we've  got 
to  work  it  out,  do  you  see?  Or — or  the  whole  scheme 
is  upset." 

It  had  seemed  very  clear  then. 

Then,  on  a  day  when  the  rare  sun  made  even  the 
rusty  silk  hats  of  clerks  on  tops  of  omnibuses  to 
gleam,  when  the  traffic  glittered  on  the  streets  and 
the  windows  of  silversmiths'  shops  shone  painful  to 
the  eye,  she  met  Lethway  again. 

The  sun  had  made  her  reckless.  Since  the  boy 
was  gone  life  was  wretchedness,  but  she  clung  to  it. 
She  had  given  up  all  hope  of  Cecil's  return,  and 
what  she  became  mattered  to  no  one  else. 

Perhaps,  more  than  anything  else,  she  craved  com- 
panionship. In  all  her  crowded  young  life  she  had 
never  before  been  alone.  Companionship  and  kind- 
ness. She  would  have  followed  to  heel,  like  a  dog, 
for  a  kind  word. 

Then  she  met  Lethway.  They  walked  through  the 
park.  When  he  left  her  her  once  clear,  careless 
glance  had  a  suggestion  of  furtiveness  in  it. 

That  afternoon  she  packed  her  trunk  and  sent  it 


300  LOVE  STORIES 

to  an  address  he  had  given  her.  In  her  packing  she 
came  across  the  stick  of  cold  cream,  still  in  the 
pocket  of  the  middy  blouse.  She  flung  it,  as  hard 
as  she  could,  across  the  room. 

She  paid  her  bill  with  money  Lethway  had  given 
her.  She  had  exactly  a  sixpence  of  her  own.  She 
found  herself  in  Trafalgar  Square  late  in  the  after- 
noon. The  great  enlisting  posters  there  caught  her 
eye,  filled  her  with  bitterness. 

"Your  king  and  your  country  need  you,"  she  read. 
She  had  needed  the  boy,  too,  but  this  vast  and  im- 
personal thing,  his  mother  country,  had  taken  him 
from  her — taken  him  and  lost  him.  She  wanted  to 
stand  by  the  poster  and  cry  to  the  passing  women 
to  hold  their  men  back.  As  she  now  knew  she  hated 
Lethway,  she  hated  England. 

She  wandered  on.  Near  Charing  Cross  she  spent 
the  sixpence  for  a  bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley,  be- 
cause he  had  said  once  that  she  was  like  them.  Then 
she  was  for  throwing  them  in  the  street,  remember- 
ing the  thing  she  would  soon  be. 

"For  the  wounded  soldiers,"  said  the  flower  girl. 
When  she  comprehended  that,  she  made  her  way  into 
the  station.  There  was  a  great  crowd,  but  something 
in  her  face  made  the  crowd  draw  back  and  let  her 
through.    They  nudged  each  other  as  she  passed. 

"Looking  for  some  one,  poor  child!"  said  a  girl 
and,  following  her,  thrust  the  flowers  she  too  carried 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?   NO!"  301 

into  Edith's  hand.     She  put  them  with  the  others, 
rather  dazed. 

To  Cecil  the  journey  had  been  a  series  of  tragedies. 
Not  his  own.  There  were  two  hundred  of  them, 
officers  and  men,  on  the  boat  across  the  Channel. 
Blind,  maimed,  paralysed,  in  motley  garments,  they 
were  hilariously  happy.  Every  throb  of  the  turbine 
engines  was  a  thrust  toward  home.  They  sang,  they 
cheered. 

Now  and  then  some  one  would  shout:  "Are  we 
downhearted?"  And  crutches  and  canes  would  come 
down  on  the  deck  to  the  unanimous  shout:  "No!" 

Folkestone  had  been  trying,  with  its  parade  of 
cheerfulness,  v/ith  kindly  women  on  the  platform 
serving  tea  and  buns.  In  the  railway  coach  to  Lon- 
don, where  the  officers  sat,  a  talking  machine  played 
steadily,  and  there  were  masses  of  flowers,  violets 
and  lilies  of  the  valley.  At  Charing  Cross  was  a 
great  mass  of  people,  and  as  they  slowly  disem- 
barked he  saw  that  many  were  crying.  He  was  rather 
surprised.  He  had  known  London  as  a  cold  and  un- 
emotional place.  It  had  treated  him  as  an  alien, 
had  snubbed  and  ignored  him. 

He  had  been  prepared  to  ask  nothing  of  London, 
and  it  lay  at  his  feet  in  tears. 

Then  he  saw  Edith. 

Perhaps,  when  in  the  fullness  of  years  the  boy  goes 


302  LOVE  STORIES 

over  to  the  life  he  so  firmly  believes  awaits  him,  the 
one  thing  he  will  carry  with  him  through  the  open 
door  will  be  the  look  in  her  eyes  when  she  saw 
him.  Too  precious  a  thing  to  lose,  surely,  even  then. 
Such  things  make  heaven. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  cried  the  girl  who  had 
given  Edith  her  flowers.  "She  has  found  him.  See, 
he  has  lost  his  arm.    Look  out — catch  him !" 

But  he  did  not  faint.    He  went  even  whiter,  ancj 
looking  at  Edith  he  touched  his  empty  sleeve. 
-     "As  if  that  would  make  any  difference  to  her!'( 
said  the  girl,  who  was  in  black.    "Look  at  her  face! 
She's  got  him." 

Neither  Edith  nor  the  boy  could  speak.  He  was 
afraid  of  unmanly  tears.  His  dignity  was  very  dear 
to  him.  And  the  tragedy  of  his  empty  sleeve  had 
her  by  the  throat.  So  they  went  out  together  and 
the  crowd  opened  to  let  them  by. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  Lethway  stormed 
through  the  stage  entrance  of  the  theatre  and  knocked 
viciously  at  the  door  of  Mabel's  dressing  room.  Re- 
ceiving no  attention,  he  opened  the  door  and  went 
in. 

The  room  was  full  of  flowers,  and  Mabel,  ready 
to  go  on,  was  having  her  pink  toes  rouged  for  her 
barefoot  dance. 


"ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?  NO!"  303 

"You've  got  a  nerve !"  she  said  coolly. 

"Where's  Edith?' 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  She  ran  away, 
when  I  was  stinting  myself  to  keep  her.  I'm  done. 
Now  you  go  out  and  close  that  door,  and  when  you 
want  to  enter  a  lady's  dressing  room,  knock." 

He  looked  at  her  with  blazing  hatred. 

"Right-o!"  was  all  he  said.  And  he  turned  and 
left  her  to  her  flowers. 

At  exactly  the  same  time  Edith  was  entering  the 
elevator  of  a  small,  very  respectable  hotel  in  Ken- 
sington.   The  boy,  smiling,  watched  her  in. 

He  did  not  kiss  her,  greatly  to  the  disappointment 
of  the  hall  porter.  As  the  elevator  rose  the  boy  stood 
at  salute,  the  ringers  of  his  left  hand  to  the  brim  of 
his  shabby  cap.  In  his  eyes,  as  they  followed  her, 
was  all  that  there  is  of  love — love  and  a  new  under- 
standing. 

She  had  told  him,  and  now  he  knew.  His  creed 
was  still  the  same.  Right  was  right  and  wrong  was 
wrong.  But  he  had  learned  of  that  shadowy  No 
Man's  Land  between  the  lines,  where  many  there 
were  who  fought  their  battles  and  were  wounded, 
and  even  died. 

As  he  turned  and  went  out  two  men  on  crutches 
were  passing  along  the  quiet  street.  They  recognised 
him  in  the  light  of  the  doorway,  and  stopped  in  front 


304  LOVE  STORIES 

of  him.     Their  voices  rang  out  in  cheerful  unison: 

"Are  we  downhearted?     No!" 

Their  crutches  struck  the  pavement  with  a  re- 
sounding thump. 


THE  GAME 


THE  GAME 


THE  Red  Un  was  very  red;  even  his  freckles 
were  red  rather  than  copper-coloured.  And 
he  was  more  prodigal  than  most  kings,  for  he  had  two 
crowns  on  his  head.  Also  his  hair  grew  in  varying 
directions,  like  a  wheatfields  after  a  storm.  He  wore 
a  coat  without  a  tail,  but  with  brass  buttons  to  com- 
pensate, and  a  celluloid  collar  with  a  front  attached. 
It  was  the  Red  Un's  habit  to  dress  first  and  wash 
after,  as  saving  labour ;  instead  of  his  neck  he  washed 
his  collar. 

The  Red  Un  was  the  Chief  Engineer's  boy  and 
rather  more  impressive  than  the  Chief,  who  was  apt 
to  decry  his  own  greatness.  It  was  the  Red  Un's 
duty  to  look  after  the  Chief,  carry  in  his  meals,  make 
his  bed,  run  errands,  and  remind  him  to  get  his  hair 
cut  now  and  then.  It  was  the  Red  Un's  pleasure 
to  assist  unassumingly  in  the  surveillance  of  that  part 
of  the  ship  where  the  great  god,  Steam,  ruled  an 
underworld  of  trimmers  and  oilers  and  stokers  and 
assistant  engineers — and  even,  with  resei  nations,  the 
Chief.     The  Red  Un  kept  a  sharp  eye  on  the  runs 

307 


308  LOVE  STORIES 

and  read  the  Chiefs  log  daily — so  much  coal  in  the 
bunkers ;  so  much  water  in  the  wells ;  so  many  engine- 
room  miles  in  twenty-four  hours — which,  of  course, 
are  not  sea  miles  exactly,  there  being  currents  and 
winds,  and  God  knows  what,  to  waste  steam  on. 

The  Red  Un,  like  the  assistants,  was  becoming  a 
bear  on  the  speed  market.  He  had  learned  that,  just 
when  the  engines  get  heated  enough  to  work  like 
demons,  and  there  is  a  chance  to  break  a  record  and 
get  a  letter  from  the  management,  some  current  or 
other  will  show  up — or  a  fog,  which  takes  the  very 
tripe  out  of  the  cylinders  and  sends  the  bridge  yap- 
ping for  caution. 

The  Red  Un  was  thirteen ;  and  he  made  the  Chiefs 
bed  by  pulling  the  counterpane  neatly  and  smoothly 
over  the  chaos  underneath — and  got  away  with  it, 
the  Chief  being  weary  at  night.  Also,  in  odd  mo- 
ments he  made  life  miserable  for  the  crew.  Up  to 
shortly  before,  he  had  had  to  use  much  energy  and 
all  his  wits  to  keep  life  in  his  starved  little  body; 
and  even  keeping  an  eye  on  the  log  and  the  Chiefs 
hair,  and  slipping  down  into  the  engine  room,  where 
he  had  no  manner  of  business,  hardly  used  up  his 
activities.  However,  he  did  not  lie  and  he  looked 
the  Chief  square  in  the  eye,  as  man  to  man. 

The  Chief  had  salvaged  him  out  of  the  Hudson, 
when  what  he  had  taken  for  a  bobbing  red  tomato 
had  suddenly  revealed  a  blue  face  and  two  set  and 


THE  GAME  309 


desperate  eyes.  After  that  the  big  Scot  had  for- 
gotten all  about  him,  except  the  next  day  when  he 
put  on  his  shoes,  which  had  shrunk  in  the  drying. 
The  liner  finished  coaling  about  that  time,  took  on 
passengers,  luggage,  steamer  baskets  and  a  pilot,  and, 
having  stowed  the  first  two,  examined  the  cards  on 
the  third  and  dropped  the  last,  was  pointed,  nose  to 
the  east  wind,  for  the  race. 

The  arrow  on  the  twin  dials  pointed  to  Stand  By ! 
for  the  long  voyage — three  thousand  miles  or  so  with- 
out a  stop.  The  gong,  and  then  Half  Ahead! — 
great  elbows  thrust  up  and  down,  up  and  down ;  the 
grunt  of  power  overcoming  inertia,  followed  by  the 
easy  swing  of  limitless  strength.  Full  Ahead ! — and 
so  off  again  for  the  great  struggle — man's  wits  and 
the  engines  and  the  mercy  of  God  against  the  up- 
reaching  of  the  sea. 

The  Chief,  who  sometimes  dreamed  his  greatness, 
but  who  ignored  it  waking,  snapped  his  watch  shut. 

"Eleven-eleven!"  he  said  to  the  Senior  Second. 
"Well,  here's  luck!"  That  is  what  he  said  aloud; 
to  himself  he  always  said  a  bit  of  a  prayer,  realising 
perhaps  even  more  than  the  bridge  how  little  man's 
wits  count  in  the  great  equation.  He  generally  said 
something  to  the  effect  that  "After  all,  it's  up  to 
Thee,  O  Lord!" 

He  shook  hands  with  the  Senior  Second,  which  also 
was  his  habit;  and  he  smiled  too,  but  rather  grimly. 


310  LOVE  STORIES 

They  were  playing  a  bit  of  a  game,  you  see ;  and  so 
far  the  Chief  had  won  all  the  tricks — just  an  amus- 
ing little  game  and  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  a 
woman;  the  Second  was  married,  but  the  Chief  had 
put  all  such  things  out  of  his  head  years  before,  when 
he  was  a  youngster  and  sailing  to  the  Plate.  Out 
of  his  head,  quite  certainly;  but  who  dreams  of 
greatness  for  himself  alone?  So  the  Chief,  having 
glanced  about  and  run  his  hand  caressingly  over 
various  fearful  and  pounding  steel  creatures,  had 
climbed  up  the  blistering  metal  staircase  to  his  room 
at  the  top  and  was  proceeding  to  put  down  eleven- 
eleven  and  various  other  things  that  the  first  cabin 
never  even  heard  of,  when  he  felt  that  he  was  being 
stared  at  from  behind. 

Now  and  then,  after  shore  leave,  a  drunken  trim- 
mer or  stoker  gets  up  to  the  Chiefs  room  and  has  to 
be  subdued  by  the  power  of  executive  eye  or  the 
strength  of  executive  arm.  As  most  Chiefs  are  Scots, 
the  eye  is  generally  sufficient.  So  the  Chief,  mightily 
ferocious,  turned  about,  eye  set,  as  one  may  say, 
to  annihilate  a  six-foot  trimmer  in  filthy  overalls  and 
a  hangover,  and  saw — a  small  red-haired  boy  in  a 
Turkish  towel. 

The  boy  quailed  rather  at  the  eye,  but  he  had  the 
courage  of  nothing  to  lose — not  even  a  pair  of 
breeches — and  everything  to  gain. 


THE  GAME  311 


"Please,"  said  the  apparition,  "the  pilot's  gone* 
and  you  can't  put  me  off!" 

The  Chief  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it  again. 
The  mouth,  and  the  modification  of  an  eye  set  for  a 
six-foot  trimmer  to  an  eye  for  a  four- foot-ten  urchin 
in  a  Turkish  towel,  produced  a  certain  softening. 
The  Red  Un,  who  was  like  the  Chief  in  that  he 
earned  his  way  by  pitting  his  wits  against  relentless 
Nature,  smiled  a  little — a  surface  smile,  with  fear 
just  behind. 

"The  Captain's  boy's  my  size;  I  could  wear  his 
clothes,"  he  suggested. 

Now,  back  in  that  time  when  the  Chief  had  kept 
a  woman's  picture  in  his  breast  pocket  instead  of  in 
a  drawer  of  his  desk,  there  had  been  small  furtive 
hopes,  the  pride  of  the  Scot  to  perpetuate  his  line, 
the  desire  of  a  man  for  a  manchild.  The  Chief 
had  buried  all  that  in  the  desk  drawer  with  the 
picture;  but  he  had  gone  overboard  in  his  best  uni- 
form to  rescue  a  wharf-rat,  and  he  had  felt  a  curious 
sense  of  comfort  when  he  held  the  cold  little  figure  in 
his  arms  and  was  hauled  on  deck,  sputtering  dirty 
river  water  and  broad  Scotch,  as  was  his  way  when 
excited. 

"And  where  ha'  ye  been  skulking  since  yesterday?" 
he  demanded. 

"In  the  bed  where  I  was  put  till  last  night.  This 
morning  early "  he  hesitated. 


312  LOVE  STORIES 

"Don't  lie!     Where  were  ye?' 

"In  a  passenger's  room,  under  a  bed.  When  the 
passengers  came  aboard  I  had  to  get  out." 

"How  did  ye  get  here?" 

This  met  with  silence.  Quite  suddenly  the  Chief 
recognised  the  connivance  of  the  crew,  perhaps,  or 
of  a  kindly  stewardess. 

"Who  told  you  this  was  my  cabin?"  A  smile  this 
time,  rather  like  the  Senior  Second's  when  the  Chief 
and  he  had  shaken  hands. 

"A  nigger!"  he  said.  "A  coloured  fella  in  a  white 
suit." 

There  was  not  a  darky  on  the  boat.  The  Red 
Un,  whose  code  was  the  truth  when  possible,  but  any 
lie  to  save  a  friend — and  that's  the  code  of  a  gentle- 
man— sat,  defiantly  hopeful,  arranging  the  towel  to 
cover  as  much  as  possible  of  his  small  person. 

"You're  lying!  Do  you  know  what  we  do  with 
liars  on  this  ship?    We  throw  them  overboard !" 

"Then  I'm  thinking,"  responded  the  Turkish 
towel,  "that  you'll  be  needing  another  Chief  En- 
gineer before  long!" 

Now,  as  it  happened,  the  Chief  had  no  boy  that 
trip.  The  previous  one  had  been  adopted  after 
the  last  trip  by  a  childless  couple  who  had  liked  the 
shape  of  his  nose  and  the  way  his  eyelashes  curled  on 
his  cheek.  The  Chief  looked  at  the  Red  Un ;  it  was 
perfectly  clear  that  no  one  would  ever  adopt  him 


THE  GAME  313 


for  the  shape  of  his  nose,  and  he  apparently  lacked 
lashes  entirely.  He  rose  and  took  a  bathrobe  from 
a  hook  on  the  door. 

"Here,"  he  said;  "cover  your  legs  wi'  that,  and  say 
a  prayer  if  ye'  know  wan.  The  Captain's  a  verra 
hard  man  wi'  stowaways." 

The  Captain,  however,  who  was  a  gentleman  and 
a  navigator  and  had  a  sense  of  humour  also,  was  not 
hard  with  the  Red  Un.  It  being  impracticable  to 
take  the  boy  to  him,  the  great  man  made  a  special 
visit  to  the  boy.  The  Red  Un,  in  the  Chief's  bath- 
robe, sat  on  a  chair,  with  his  feet  about  four  inches 
from  the  floor,  and  returned  the  Captain's  glare  with 
wide  blue  eyes. 

"Is  there  any  reason,  young  man,  why  I  shouldn't 
order  you  to  the  lockup  for  the  balance  of  this  voy- 
aged" the  Captain  demanded,  extra  grim,  and  trying 
not  to  smile. 

"Well,"  said  the  Red  Un,  wiggling  his  legs  nerv- 
Dusly,  "you'd  have  to  feed  me,  wouldn't  you"?  And 
I  might  as  well  work  for  my  keep." 

This  being  a  fundamental  truth  on  which  most 
economics  and  all  governments  are  founded,  and 
the  Captain  having  a  boy  of  his  own  at  home,  he 
gave  a  grudging  consent,  for  the  sake  of  discipline, 
to  the  Red  Un's  working  for  his  keep  as  the  Chief's 
boy,  and  left.    Outside  the  door  he  paused. 

"The  little  devil's  starved,"  he  said.     "Put  some 


314 LOVE  STORIES 

meat  on  those  ribs,  Chief,  and — be  a  bit  easy  with 
him!" 

This  last  was  facetious,  the  Chief  being  known  to 
have  the  heart  of  a  child. 

So  the  Red  Un  went  on  the  payroll  of  the  line,  and 
requisition  was  made  on  the  storekeeper  for  the  short- 
tailed  coat  and  the  long  trousers,  and  on  the  barber 
for  a  hair-cut.  And  in  some  curious  way  the  Red 
Un  and  the  Chief  hit  it  off.  It  might  have  been  a 
matter  of  red  blood  or  of  indomitable  spirit. 

Spirit  enough  and  to  spare  had  the  Red  Un.  On 
the  trip  out  he  had  licked  the  Captain's  boy  and  the 
Purser's  boy;  on  the  incoming  trip  he  had  lashed  the 
Doctor's  boy  to  his  triumphant  mast,  and  only  three 
days  before  he  had  settled  a  row  in  the  stokehole  by 
putting  hot  ashes  down  the  back  of  a  drunken  trim- 
mer, and  changing  his  attitude  from  menace  with  a 
steel  shovel  to  supplication  and  prayer. 

He  had  no  business  in  the  stokehole,  but  by  that 
time  he  knew  every  corner  of  the  ship — called  the 
engines  by  name  and  the  men  by  epithets ;  had  named 
one  of  the  pumps  Marguerite,  after  the  Junior  Sec- 
ond's best  girl;  and  had  taken  violent  partisan- 
ship in  the  eternal  rivalry  of  the  liner  between  the 
engine  room  and  the  bridge. 

"Aw,  gwan!"  he  said  to  the  Captain's  boy. 
"Where'd  you  and  your  Old  Man  be  but  for  us? 


THE  GAME  315 

In  a  blasted  steel  tank,  floating  about  on  the  bloomin' 
sea!    What's  a  ship  without  insides?" 

The  Captain's  boy,  who  was  fourteen,  and  kept 
his  bath  sponge  in  a  rubber  bag,  and  shaved  now  and 
then  with  the  Captain's  razor,  retorted  in  kind. 

"You  fellows  below  think  you're  the  whole  bally 
ship !"  he  said  loftily.  "Insides  is  all  right — we  need 
'em  in  our  business.  But  what'd  your  steel  tank 
do,  with  the  engines  goin',  if  she  wasn't  bein'  navi- 
gated? Steamin'  in  circles,  like  a  tinklin'  merry-go- 
round  !" 

It  was  some  seconds  after  this  that  the  Purser,  a 
well-intentioned  but  interfering  gentleman  with  a 
beard,  received  the  kick  that  put  him  in  dry  dock 
for  two  days. 

ii 

They  were  three  days  out  of  New  York  on  the 
Red  Un's  second  round  trip  when  the  Second,  still 
playing  the  game  and  almost  despairing,  made  a 
strategic  move.  The  Red  Un  was  laying  out  the 
Chief's  luncheon  on  his  desk — a  clean  napkin  for  a 
cloth;  a  glass;  silver;  a  plate;  and  the  menu  from 
the  first-cabin  dining  saloon.  The  menu  was  propped 
against  a  framed  verse: 

But  I  ha9  lived  and  I  ha'  worked! 
All  thanks  to  Thee,  Most  High. 


316  LOVE  STORIES 

And  as  he  placed  the  menu,  the  Red  Un  repeated 
the  words  from  McAndrew's  hymn.  It  had  rather 
got  him  at  first;  it  was  a  new  philosophy  of  life. 
To  give  thanks  for  life  was  understandable,  even  if 
unnecessary.  But  thanks  for  work!  There  was 
another  framed  card  above  the  desk,  more  within 
the  Red  Un's  ken :  "Cable  crossing !  Do  not  anchor 
here!" 

The  card  worked  well  with  the  first  class,  resting 
in  the  Chiefs  cabin  after  the  arduous  labours  of  see- 
ing the  engines. 

The  Chief  was  below,  flat  on  his  back  in  a  manhole 
looking  for  a  staccato  note  that  did  not  belong  in  his 
trained  and  orderly  chorus.  There  was  grease  in 
his  sandy  hair,  and  the  cranks  were  only  a  few  inches 
from  his  nose.  By  opening  the  door  the  Red  Un 
was  able  to  command  the  cylinder  tops,  far  below, 
and  the  fiddley,  which  is  the  roof  of  hell  or  a  steel 
grating  over  the  cylinders  to  walk  on — depending 
on  whether  one  is  used  to  it  or  not.  The  Chief  was 
naturally  not  in  sight., 

This  gave  the  Red  Un  two  minutes'  leeway — two 
minutes  for  exploration.  A  drawer  in  the  desk, 
always  heretofore  locked,  was  unfastened — that  is, 
the  bolt  had  been  shot  before  the  drawer  was  entirely 
closed.  The  Red  Un  was  jealous  of  that  drawer.  In 
two  voyages  he  had  learned  most  of  the  Chief's 
history  and,  lacking  one  of  his  own,  had  appropriated 


THE  GAME  317 


it  to  himself.  Thus  it  was  not  unusual  for  him  to 
remark  casually,  as  he  stood  behind  the  Chief's  chair 
at  dinner:  "We'd  better  send  this  here  postcard  to 
Cousin  Willie,  at  Edinburgh." 

"Ou-ay !"  the  Chief  would  agree,  and  tear  off  the 
postcard  of  the  ship  that  topped  each  day's  menu; 
but,  so  far,  all  hints  as  to  this  one  drawer  had  been 
futile;  it  remained  the  one  barrier  to  their  perfect 
confidence,  the  fly  in  the  ointment  of  the  Red  Un's 
content. 

Now,  at  last Below,  a  drop  of  grease  in  the 

Chief's  eye  set  him  wiping  and  cursing;  over  his  head 
hammered,  banged  and  lunged  his  great  babies;  in 
the  stokehole  a  gaunt  and  grimy  creature,  yclept  the 
Junior  Second,  stewed  in  his  own  sweat  and  yelled 
for  steam. 

The  Red  Un  opened  the  drawed  quickly  and  thrust 
in  a  hand.  At  first  he  thought  it  was  empty,  working 
as  he  did  by  touch,  his  eye  on  the  door.  Then  he 
found  a  disappointing  something — the  lid  of  a  cigar- 
box  !  Under  that  was  a  photograph.  Here  was  luck ! 
Had  the  Red  Un  known  it,  he  had  found  the  only 
two  secrets  in  his  Chief's  open  life.  But  the  picture 
was  disappointing — a  snapshot  of  a  young  woman, 
rather  slim,  with  the  face  obscured  by  a  tennis  racket, 
obviously  thrust  into  the  picture  at  the  psychological 
moment.  Poor  spoil  this — a  cigar-box  lid  and  a  girl 
without  a  face!     However,   marred  as  it  was,   it 


318  LOVE  STORIES 

clearly  meant  something  to  the  Chief.  For  on  its 
reverse  side  was  another  stanza  from  Mc Andrew's 
hymn: 

Ye  know  how  hard  an  idol  dies, 
An'  what  that  meant  to  me — 

E'en  ta¥  it  for  a  sacrifice 
Acceptable  to  Thee, 

The  Red  Un  thrust  it  back  into  the  drawer,  with 
the  lid.  If  she  was  dead  what  did  it  matter?  He 
was  a  literal  youth — so  far,  his  own  words  had 
proved  sufficient  for  his  thoughts;  it  is  after  thirty 
that  a  man  finds  his  emotions  bigger  than  his  power 
of  expressing  them,  and  turns  to  those  that  have  the 
gift.    The  Chief  was  over  thirty. 

It  was  as  he  shut  the  drawer  that  he  realised  he 
was  not  alone.  The  alley  door  was  open  and  in  it 
stood  the  Senior  Second.  The  Red  Un  eyed  him 
unpleasantly. 

"Sneaking!"  said  the  Second. 

"None  of  your  blamed  business !"  replied  the  Red 
Un. 

The  Second,  who  was  really  an  agreeable  person, 
with  a  sense  of  humour,  smiled.  He  rather  liked  the 
Red  Un. 

"Do  you  know,  William,"  he  observed — William 
was  the  Red  Un's  name — "I'd  be  willing  to  offer  two 


THE  GAME  319 


shillings  for  an  itemised  account  of  what's  in  that 
drawer?" 

"Fill  it  with  shillings,"  boasted  the  Red  Un,  "and 
I'll  not  tell  you." 

"Three?"  said  the  Second  cheerfully. 

"No." 

"Four5?" 

"Why  don't  you  look  yourself?" 

"Just  between  gentlemen,  that  isn't  done,  young 
man.  But  if  you  volunteered  the  information,  and  I 
saw  fit  to  make  you  a  present  of,  say,  a  pipe,  with  a 
box  of  tobacco " 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  for?" 

"I  guess  you  know." 

The  Red  Un  knew  quite  well.  The  Chief  and  the 
two  Seconds  were  still  playing  their  game,  and  the 
Chief  was  still  winning;  but  even  the  Red  Un  did 
not  know  how  the  Chief  won — and  as  for  the  two 
Seconds  and  the  Third  and  the  Fourth,  they  were 
quite  stumped. 

This  was  the  game:  In  bad  weather,  when  the 
ports  are  closed  and  first-class  passengers  are  yapping 
for  air,  it  is  the  province  of  the  engine  room  to  see 
that  they  get  it.  An  auxiliary  engine  pumps  cubic 
feet  of  atmosphere  into  every  cabin  through  a  series 
of  airtrunks. 

So  far  so  good.  But  auxiliaries  take  steam;  and 
it  is  exceedingly  galling  to  a  Junior  or  Senior,  wager- 


320  LOVE  STORIES 

ing  more  than  he  can  afford  on  the  run  in  his  watch, 
to  have  to  turn  valuable  steam  to  auxiliaries — "So 
that  a  lot  of  blooming  nuts  may  smoke  in  their 
bunks!"  as  the  Third  put  it. 

The  first  move  in  the  game  is  the  Chiefs,  who 
goes  to  bed  and  presumably  to  sleep.  After  that  it's 
the  engine-room  move,  which  gives  the  first  class 
time  to  settle  down  and  then  shuts  off  the  airpumps. 
Now  there  is  no  noise  about  shutting  off  the  air  in 
the  trunks.  It  flows  or  it  does  not  flow.  The  game 
is  to  see  whether  the  Chief  wakens  when  the  air 
stops  or  does  not.  So  far  he  had  always  wakened. 

It  was  uncanny.  It  was  worse  than  that — it  was 
damnable!  Did  not  the  Old  Man  sleep  at  all*? — 
not  that  he  was  old,  but  every  Chief  is  the  Old  Man 
behind  his  back.  Everything  being  serene,  and  the 
engine-room  clock  marking  twelve-thirty,  one  of  the 
Seconds  would  shut  off  the  air  very  gradually;  the 
auxiliary  would  slow  down,  wheeze,  pant  and  die — 
and  within  two  seconds  the  Chiefs  bell  would  ring 
and  an  angry  voice  over  the  telephone  demand  what 
the  several  kinds  of  perdition  had  happened  to  the 
air !    Another  trick  in  the  game  to  the  Chief ! 

It  had  gone  past  joking  now :  had  moved  up  from 
the  uncanny  to  the  impossible,  from  the  impossible 
to  the  enraging.  Surreptitious  search  of  the  Chiefs 
room  had  shown  nothing  but  the  one  locked  drawer. 
They  had  taken  advantage  of  the  Chiefs  being  laid 


THE  GAME  321 


up  in  Antwerp  with  a  boil  on  his  neck  to  sound 
the  cabin  for  hidden  wires.  They  had  asked  the, 
ship's  doctor  anxiously  how  long  a  man  could  do 
without  sleep.    The  doctor  had  quoted  Napoleon. 

"If  at  any  time,"  observed  the  Second  pleasantly, 
"you  would  like  that  cigarette  case  the  barber  is 
selling,  you  know  how  to  get  it." 

"Thanks,  old  man,"  said  the  Red  Un  loftily,  with 
his  eye  on  the  wall. 

The  Second  took  a  step  forward  and  thought  bet- 
ter of  it. 

"Better  think  about  it!" 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  else,"  said  the  Red 
Un,  still  staring  at  the  wall.  The  Second  followed 
his  eye.  The  Red  Un  was  gazing  intently  at  the 
sign  which  said:  "Cable  crossing!  Do  not  anchor 
here !" 

As  the  Second  slammed  out,  the  Chief  crawled 
from  his  manhole  and  struggled  out  of  his  greasy 
overalls.  Except  for  his  face,  he  was  quite  tidy. 
He  ran  an  eye  down  the  port  tunnel,  where  the 
shaft  revolved  so  swiftly  that  it  seemed  to  be  stand- 
ing still,  to  where  at  the  after  end  came  the  racing 
of  the  screw  as  it  lifted,  bearded  with  scud,  out  of 
the  water. 

"It  looks  like  weather  to-night,"  he  observed, 
with  a  twinkle,  to  the  Fourth.     "There'll  aye  be  air 


322 LOVE  STORIES 

wanted."     But  the  Fourth  was  gazing  at  a  steam 
gauge. 

in 

The  Red  Un's  story,  like  all  Gaul,  is  divided  in- 
to three  parts — his  temptation,  his  fall  and  his 
redemption.  All  lives  are  so  divided:  a  step  back; 
a  plunge;  and  then,  in  desperation  and  despair,  a 
little  climb  up  God's  ladder. 

Seven  days  the  liner  lay  in  New  York — seven 
days  of  early  autumn  heat,  of  blistering  decks,  of 
drunken  and  deserting  trimmers,  of  creaking  gear 
and  grime  of  coal-dust.  The  cabin  which  held  the 
Red  Un  and  the  Purser's  boy  was  breathless.  On 
Sunday  the  four  ship's  boys  went  to  Coney  Island 
and  lay  in  the  surf  half  the  afternoon.  The  bliss  of 
the  water  on  their  thin  young  legs  and  scrawny  bodies 
was  Heaven.  They  did  not  swim;  they  lay  inert, 
letting  the  waves  move  them  about,  and  out  of  the 
depths  of  a  deep  content  making  caustic  comments 
about  the  human  form  as  revealed  by  the  relentless  sea. 

"That's  a  pippin !"  they  would  say;  or,  "My  aunt ! 
looks  at  his  legs !"  They  voiced  their  opinions  audibly 
and  were  ready  to  back  them  up  with  flight  or  fight. 

It  was  there  that  the  Red  Un  saw  the  little  girl. 
She  had  come  from  a  machine,  and  her  mother  stood 
near.  She  was  not  a  Coney  Islander.  She  was  first- 
cabin  certainly — silk  stockings  on  her  thin  ankles, 


THE  GAME  323 


sheer  white  frock;  no  jewelry.  She  took  a  snapshot 
of  the  four  boys — to  their  discomfiture — and  walked 
away  while  they  were  still  writhing. 

"That  for  mine!"  said  the  Red  Un  in  one  of  his 
rare  enthusiasms. 

They  had  supper — a  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  beer; 
they  would  have  preferred  pop,  but  what  deep-water 
man  on  shore  drinks  pop? — and  made  their  way  back 
to  the  ship  by  moonlight.  The  Red  Un  was  terse  in 
his  speech  on  the  car:  mostly  he  ate  peanuts  ab- 
stractedly. If  he  evolved  any  clear  idea  out  of  the 
chaos  of  his  mind  it  was  to  wish  she  had  snapped 
him  in  his  uniform  with  the  brass  buttons. 

The  heat  continued;  the  men  in  the  stokehole, 
keeping  up  only  enough  steam  for  the  dynamos  and 
donkey  engines,  took  turns  under  the  ventilators  or 
crawled  up  to  the  boatdeck  at  dusk,  too  exhausted  to 
dress  and  go  ashore.  The  swimmers  were  overboard 
in  the  cool  river  with  the  first  shadows  of  night ;  the 
Quartermaster,  so  old  that  he  dyed  his  hair  for  fear 
he'd  be  superannuated,  lowered  his  lean  body  hand 
over  hand  down  a  rope  and  sat  by  the  hour  on  a 
stringpiece  of  the  dock,  with  the  water  laving  his 
hairy  and  tattooed  old  breast. 

The  Red  Un  was  forbidden  the  river.  To  be 
honest,  he  was  rather  relieved — not  twice  does  a 
man  dare  the  river  god,  having  once  been  crowned 
with  his  slime  and  water-weed.    When  the  boy  grew 


324  LOVE  STORIES 

very  hot  he  slipped  into  a  second-cabin  shower,  and 
stood  for  luxurious  minutes  with  streams  running 
off  his  nose  and  the  ends  of  his  fingers  and  splashing 
about  his  bony  ankles. 

Then,  one  night,  some  of  the  men  took  as  many 
passengers'  lifebelts  and  went  in.  The  immediate 
result  was  fun  combined  with  safety;  the  secondary 
result  was  placards  over  the  ship  and  the  dock,  for- 
bidding the  use  of  the  ship's  lifebelts  by  the  crew. 

From  that  moment  the  Red  Un  was  possessed  for 
the  river  and  a  lifebelt.  So  were  the  other  three. 
The  signs  were  responsible.  Permitted,  a  ship's  life- 
belt was  a  subterfuge  of  the  cowardly,  white-livered 
skunks  who  were  afraid  of  a  little  water;  forbidden, 
a  ship's  lifebelt  took  on  the  qualities  of  enemy's 
property — to  be  reconnoitred,  assaulted,  captured 
and  turned  to  personal  advantage. 

That  very  night,  then,  four  small  bodies,  each 
naked  save  for  a  lifebelt,  barrelshaped  and  extending 
from  breast  almost  to  knee,  slipped  over  the  side  of 
the  ship  with  awkward  splashes  and  proceeded  to 
disport  themselves  in  the  river.  Scolding  tugs  sent 
waves  for  them  to  ride ;  ferries  crawled  like  gigantic 
bugs  with  a  hundred  staring  eyes.  They  found  the 
Quartermaster  on  a  stringpiece  immersed  to  the  neck 
and  smoking  his  pipe,  and  surrounded  him — four 
small,  shouting  imps,  floating  barrels  with  splashing 
hands  and  kicking  feet. 


THE  GAME  325 


"Gwan,  ye  little  devils !"  said  the  Quartermaster, 
clutching  the  stringpiece  and  looking  about  in  the 
gloom  for  a  weapon.  The  Red  Un,  quite  safe  and 
audacious  in  his  cork  jacket,  turned  over  on  his  back 
and  kicked. 

"Gwan  yerself,  Methuselah !"  he  sang. 

They  stole  the  old  man's  pipe  and  passed  it  from 
mouth  to  mouth ;  they  engaged  him  in  innocent  con- 
verse while  one  of  them  pinched  his  bare  old  toe 
under  water,  crab-fashion.  And  at  last  they  pre- 
pared to  shin  up  the  rope  again  and  sleep  the  sleep 
of  the  young,  the  innocent  and  the  refreshed. 

The  Chief  was  leaning  over  the  rail,  just  above, 
smoking ! 

He  leaned  against  the  rail  and  smoked  for  three 
hours !  Eight  eyes,  watching  him  from  below,  failed 
to  find  anything  in  his  face  but  contemplation ;  eight 
hands  puckered  like  a  washerwoman's;  eight  feet 
turned  from  medium  to  clean,  from  clean  to  bleached 
— and  still  the  Chief  smoked  on.  He  watched  the 
scolding  tugs  and  the  ferryboats  that  crawled  over 
the  top  of  the  water;  he  stood  in  rapt  contempla- 
tion of  the  electric  signs  in  Jersey,  while  the  ship's 
bells  marked  the  passage  of  time  to  eternity,  while 
the  Quartermaster  slept  in  his  bed,  while  the  odours 
of  the  river  stank  in  their  nostrils  and  the  pressure  of 
the  ship's  lifebelts  weighed  like  lead  on  their  clammy 
bodies. 


326  LOVE  STORIES 

At  eight  bells — which  is  midnight — the  Chief 
emptied  his  twenty-fourth  pipe  over  the  rail  and 
smiled  into  the  gloom  beneath. 

"Ye'll  better  be  coming  up,"  he  remarked  pleasant- 
ly.   "I'm  for  turning  in  myseP." 

He  wandered  away;  none  of  the  watch  was  near. 
The  ship  was  dark,  save  for  her  riding  lights.  Hand 
over  puckered  hand  they  struggled  up  and  wriggled 
out  of  the  belts;  stark  naked  they  ducked  through 
passageways  and  alleys,  and  stowed  their  damp  and 
cringing  forms  between  sheets. 

The  Red  Un  served  the  Chiefs  breakfast  the  next 
morning  very  carefully.  The  Chiefs  cantaloupe  was 
iced ;  his  kipper  covered  with  a  hot  plate ;  the  morn- 
ing paper  propped  against  McAndrew's  hymn.  The 
Red  Un  looked  very  clean  and  rather  bleached. 

The  Chief  was  busy;  he  read  the  night  reports, 
which  did  not  amount  to  much,  the  well  soundings, 
and  a  letter  from  a  man  offering  to  show  him  how 
to  increase  the  efficiency  of  his  engines  fifty  per  cent, 
and  another  offering  him  a  rake-off  on  a  new  lu- 
bricant. 

Outwardly  the  Chief  was  calm — even  cold.  In- 
wardly he  was  rather  uncomfortable:  he  could  feel 
two  blue  eyes  fixed  on  his  back  and  remembered  the 
day  he  had  pulled  them  out  of  the  river,  and  how 
fixed  and  desperate  they  were  then.    But  what  was 


THE  GAME  327 


it  McAndrew  said?  "Law,  order,  duty  an'  restraint, 
obedience,  discipline !" 

Besides,  if  the  boys  were  going  to  run  off  with 
the  belts  some  damned  first-class  passenger  was  likely 
to  get  a  cabin  minus  a  belt  and  might  write  to  the 
management.  The  line  had  had  bad  luck;  it  did  not 
want  another  black  eye.  He  cleared  his  throat;  the 
Red  Un  dropped  a  fork. 

"That  sort  of  thing  last  night  won't  do,  William." 

"N-No,  sir." 

"Ye  had  seen  the  signs,  of  course?" 

"Yes,  sir."  The  Red  Un  never  lied  to  the  Chief; 
it  was  useless. 

The  Chief  toyed  with  his  kipper. 

"Ye'll  understand  I'd  ha'  preferred  dealin'  with 
the  matter  myseP ;  but  it's — gone  up  higher." 

The  Quartermaster,  of  course!  The  Chief  rose 
and  pretended  to  glance  over  the  well  soundings. 

"The  four  of  ye  will  meet  me  in  the  Captain's 
room  in  fifteen  minutes,"  he  observed  casually. 

The  Captain  was  feeding  his  cat  when  the  Red  Uu 
got  there.  The  four  boys  lined  up  uncomfortably; 
all  of  them  looked  clean,  subdued,  apprehensive.  If 
they  were  to  be  locked  up  in  this  sort  of  weather,  and 
only  three  days  to  sailing  time — even  a  fine  would  be 
better.    The  Captain  stroked  the  cat  and  eyed  them. 

"Well,"  he  said  curtly,  "what  have  you  four  young 
imps  been  up  to  now?" 


328  LOVE  STORIES 

The  four  young  imps  stood  panicky.  They  looked 
as  innocent  as  choir  boys.  The  cat,  eating  her  kipper, 
wheezed. 

"Please,  sir,"  said  the  Captain's  boy  solicitously, 
"Peter  has  something  in  his  throat." 

"Perhaps  it's  a  ship's  lifebelt,"  said  the  Captain 
grimly,  and  caught  the  Chief's  eye. 

The  line  palpitated;  under  cover  of  its  confusion 
the  Chief,  standing  in  the  doorway  with  folded  arms, 
winked  swiftly  at  the  Captain;  the  next  moment  he 
was  more  dour  than  ever. 

"You  are  four  upsetters  of  discipline,"  said  the 
Captain,  suddenly  pounding  the  table.  "You  four 
young  monkeys  have  got  the  crew  by  the  ears,  and 
I'm  sick  of  it!  Which  one  of  you  put  the  fish  in 
Mrs.  Schmidt's  bed?" 

Mrs.  Schmidt  was  a  stewardess.  The  Red  Un 
stepped  forward. 

"Who  turned  the  deckhose  into  the  Purser's  cabin 
night  before  last?" 

"Please,"  said  the  Doctor's  boy  pallidly,  "I  made 
a  mistake  in  the  room.     I  thought " 

"Who,"  shouted  the  Captain,  banging  again,  "cut 
the  Quartermaster's  rope  two  nights  ago  and  left 
him  sitting  under  the  dock  for  four  hours?" 

The  Purser's  boy  this  time,  white  to  the  lips! 
Fresh  panic  seized  them;  it  could  hardly  be  mere 
arrest  if  he  knew  all  this ;  he  might  order  them  hanged 


THE  GAME  329 


from  a  yardarm  or  shot  at  sunrise.  He  looked  like 
the  latter.  The  Red  Un  glanced  at  the  Chief,  who 
looked  apprehensive  also,  as  if  the  thing  was  going 
too  far.  The  Captain  may  have  read  their  thoughts, 
for  he  said : 

"You're  limbs  of  Satan,  all  of  you,  and  hanging's 
too  good  for  you.  What  do  you  say,  Chief?  How 
can  we  make  these  young  scamps  lessons  in  discipline 
to  the  crew?" 

Everybody  breathed  again  and  looked  at  the  Chief 
— who  stood  tall  and  sandy  and  rather  young  to  be 
a  Chiefi — in  the  doorway. 

"Eh,  mon,"  he  said,  and  smiled,  "I'm  aye  a  bit 
severe.    Don't  ask  me  to  punish  the  bairns." 

The  Captain  sniffed. 

"Severe!"  he  observed.  "You  Scots  are  hard  in 
the  head,  but  soft  in  the  disposition.  Come,  Chief 
— shall  they  walk  the  plank?" 

"Good  deescipline,"  assented  the  Chief,  "but  it 
would  leave  us  a  bit  shorthanded." 

"True,"  said  the  Captain  gloomily. 

"I  was  thinkin',"  remarked  the  Chief  diffidently — 
one  hates  to  think  before  the  Captain;  that's  always 
supposed  to  be  his  job. 

"Yes?" 

"That  we  could  make  a  verra  fine  example  of  them 
and  still  retain  their  services.     Ha'  ye,  by  chance, 


330 LOVE  STORIES 

seen  a  crow  hangin'  head  down  in  the  field,  a  warnin' 
to  other  mischief-makers?" 

"Ou-ay!"  said  the  Captain,  who  had  a  Scotch 
mother.  The  line  wavered  again ;  the  Captain's  boy, 
who  pulled  his  fingers  when  he  was  excited,  cracked 
three  knuckles. 

"It  would  be  good  deescipline,"  continued  the 
Chief,  "to  stand  the  four  o'  them  in  ship's  belt  at  the 
gangway,  say  for  an  hour,  morning  and  evening — 
clad,  ye  ken,  as  they  were  during  the  said  infreenge- 
ments." 

"You're  a  great  man,  Chief!"  said  the  Captain. 
"You  hear  that,  lads?" 

"With — with  no  trousers?"  gasped  the  Doctor's 
boy. 

"If  you  wore  trousers  last  night.    If  not " 

The  thing  was  done  that  morning.  Four  small 
boys,  clad  only  in  ship's  belts,  above  which  rose  four 
sheepish  heads  and  freckled  faces,  below  which 
shifted  and  wriggled  eight  bare  legs,  stood  in  line  at 
the  gangway  and  suffered  agonies  of  humiliation  at 
the  hands  of  crew  and  dockmen,  grinning  customs 
inspectors,  coalpassers,  and  a  newspaper  photog- 
rapher hunting  a  human-interest  bit  for  a  Sunday 
paper.  The  cooks  came  up  from  below  and  peeped 
out  at  them;  the  ship's  cat  took  up  a  position  in  line 


THE  GAME  331 


and  came  out  in  the  Sunday  edition  as  "a  fellow  con- 
spirator." 

The  Red  Un,  owing  to  an  early  training  that  had 
considered  clothing  desirable  rather  than  essential, 
was  not  vitally  concerned.  The  Quartermaster  had 
charge  of  the  line;  he  had  drawn  a  mark  with  chalk 
along  the  deck,  and  he  kept  their  toes  to  it  by 
marching  up  and  down  in  front  of  them  with  a 
broomhandle  over  his  shoulder. 

"Toe  up,  you  little  varmints !"  he  would  snap. 
"God  knows  I'd  be  glad  to  get  a  rap  at  you — keeping 
an  old  man  down  in  the  water  half  the  night !  Toe 
up!" 

Whereupon,  aiming  an  unlucky  blow  at  the 
Purser's  boy,  he  hit  the  Captain's  cat.  The  line 
snickered. 

It  was  just  after  that  the  Red  Un,  surmising  a  snap 
by  the  photographer  on  the  dock  and  thwarting  it  by 
putting  his  thumb  to  his  nose,  received  the  shock  of 
his  small  life.  The  little  girl  from  Coney  Island, 
followed  by  her  mother,  was  on  the  pier — was  show- 
ing every  evidence  of  coming  up  the  gangway  to 
where  he  stood.  Was  coming !  Panic  seized  the  Red 
Un — panic  winged  with  flight.  He  turned — to  face 
the  Chief.    Appeal  sprang  to  the  Red  Un's  lips. 

"Please !"  he  gasped.  "I'm  sick,  sick  as  h — ,  sick 
as  a  dog,  Chief.  I've  got  a  pain  in  my  chest — 
I " 


332 LOVE  STORIES 

Curiously  enough,  the  Chief  did  not  answer  or  even 
hear.  He,  too,  was  looking  at  the  girl  on  the  gang- 
way and  at  her  mother.  The  next  moment  the  Chief 
was  in  full  flight,  ignominious  flight,  his  face, 
bleached  with  the  heat  of  the  engine  room  and  the 
stokehole,  set  as  no  emergency  of  broken  shaft  or 
flying  gear  had  ever  seen  it.  Broken  shaft  indeed ! 
A  man's  life  may  be  a  broken  shaft. 

The  woman  and  the  girl  came  up  the  gangway, 
exidently  to  inspect  staterooms.  The  Quartermaster 
had  rallied  the  Red  Un  back  to  the  line  and  stood 
before  him,  brandishing  his  broomhandle.  Black 
fury  was  in  the  boy's  eye;  hate  had  written  herself 
on  his  soul.  His  Chief  had  ignored  his  appeal — had 
left  him  to  his  degradation — had  deserted  him. 

The  girl  saw  the  line,  started,  blushed,  recognised 
the  Red  Un — and  laughed! 


IV 

The  great  voyage  began — began  with  the  band 
playing  and  much  waving  of  flags  and  display  of 
handkerchiefs;  began  with  the  girl  and  her  mother 
on  board;  began  with  the  Chief  eating  his  heart  out 
over  coal  and  oil  vouchers  and  well  soundings  and 
other  things;  began  with  the  Red  Un  in  a  new  cel- 
luloid collar,  lying  awake  at  night  to  hate  his  master, 
adding  up  his  injury  each  day  to  greater  magnitude. 


THE  GAME  333 


The  voyage  began.  The  gong  rang  from  the 
bridge.  Stand  By !  said  the  twin  dials.  Half  Ahead ! 
Full  Ahead!  Full  Ahead!  Man's  wits  once  more 
against  the  upreaching  of  the  sea!  The  Chief,  who 
knew  that  somewhere  above  was  his  woman  and  her 
child,  which  was  not  his,  stood  under  a  ventilator 
and  said  the  few  devout  words  with  which  he  com- 
menced each  voyage : 

"With  Thy  help!"  And  then,  snapping  his  watch: 
"Three  minutes  past  ten!" 

The  chief  engineer  of  a  liner  is  always  a  gentle- 
man and  frequently  a  Christian.  He  knows,  you  see, 
how  much  his  engines  can  do  and  how  little.  It  is 
not  his  engines  alone  that  conquer  the  sea,  nor  his 
engines  plus  his  own  mother  wit.  It  is  engines  plus 
wit  plus  x,  and  the  x  is  God's  mercy.  Being  responsi- 
ble for  two  quantities  out  of  the  three  of  the  equa- 
tion, he  prays — if  he  does — with  an  eye  on  a  gauge 
and  an  ear  open  for  a  cylinder  knock. 

There  was  gossip  in  the  engineers'  mess  those  next 
days:  the  Old  Man  was  going  to  pieces.  A  man 
could  stand  so  many  years  of  the  strain  and  then 
where  was  he?     In  a  land  berth,  growing  fat  and 

paunchy,  and  eating  his  heart  out  for  the  sea,  or 

The  sea  got  him  one  way  or  another! 

The  Senior  Second  stood  out  for  the  Chief. 

"Wrong  with  him?  There's  nothing  wrong  with 
him,"  he  declared.     "If  he  was  any  more  on  the 


334  LOVE  STORIES 

job  than  he  is  I'd  resign.  He's  on  the  job  twenty- 
four  hours  a  day,  nights  included." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this ;  the  mess  was  on  to  the 
game.     Most  of  them  were  playing  it. 

So  now  we  have  the  Red  Un  looking  for  revenge 
and  in  idle  moments  lurking  about  the  decks  where 
the  girl  played.  He  washed  his  neck  under  his  collar 
those  days. 

And  we  have  the  Chief  fretting  over  his  engines, 
subduing  drunken  stokers,  quelling  the  frequent  dis* 
turbances  of  Hell  Alley,  which  led  to  the  firemen's 
quarters,  eating  little  and  smoking  much,  devising 
out  of  his  mental  disquietude  a  hundred  possible 
emergencies  and — keeping  away  from  the  passengers. 
The  Junior  Second  took  down  the  two  parties  who 
came  to  see  the  engine  room  and  gave  them  lemonade 
when  they  came  up.  The  little  girl's  mother  came 
with  the  second  party  and  neither  squealed  nor  asked 
questions — only  at  the  door  into  the  stokeholes  she 
stood  a  moment  with  dilated  eyes.  She  was  a  little 
woman,  still  slim,  rather  tragic.  She  laid  a  hand  on 
the  Junior's  arm. 

"The — the  engineers  do  not  go  in  there,  do  they'?" 

"Yes,  madam.  We  stand  four-hour  watches. 
That  is  the  Senior  Second  Engineer  on  that  pile  of 
cinders." 

The  Senior  Second  was  entirely  black,  except  for 
his  teeth  and  the  whites  of  his  eyes.     There  was  a 


THE  GAME  335 


little  trouble  in  a  coalbunker;  they  had  just  dis- 
covered it.  There  would  be  no  visitors  after  this 
until  the  trouble  was  over. 

The  girl's  mother  said  nothing  more.  The  Junior 
Second  led  them  around,  helping  a  pretty  young 
woman  about  and  explaining  to  her. 

"This,"  he  said,  smiling  at  the  girl,  "is  a  pump 
the  men  have  nicknamed  Marguerite,  because  she 
takes  most  of  one  man's  time  and  is  always  giving 
trouble." 

The  young  woman  tossed  her  head. 

"Perhaps  she  would  do  better  if  she  were  left 
alone,"  she  suggested. 

The  girl's  mother  said  nothing,  but,  before  she 
left,  she  took  one  long  look  about  the  engine  room. 
In  some  such  bedlam  of  noise  and  heat  he  spent  his 
life.  She  was  wrong,  of  course,  to  pity  him;  one 
need  not  measure  labour  by  its  conditions  or  by  its 
cost,  but  by  the  joy  of  achievement.  The  woman 
saw  the  engines — sinister,  menacing,  frightful;  the 
man  saw  power  that  answered  to  his  hand — conquest, 
victory.  The  beat  that  was  uproar  to  her  ears  was 
as  the  throbbing  of  his  own  heart. 

It  was  after  they  had  gone  that  the  Chief  emerged 
from  the  forward  stokehole  where  the  trouble  was. 
He  had  not  seen  her ;  she  would  not  have  known  him, 
probably,  had  they  met  face  to  face.  He  was  quite 
black  and  the  light  of  battle  gleamed  in  his  eyes. 


336 LOVE  STORIES 

They  fixed  the  trouble  somehow.  It  was  fire  in  a 
coalbunker,  one  of  the  minor  exigencies.  Fire  re- 
quiring air  they  smothered  it  one  way  and  another. 
It  did  not  spread,  but  it  did  not  quite  die.  And  each 
day's  run  was  better  than  the  day  before. 

The  weather  was  good.  The  steerage,  hanging 
over  the  bow,  saw  far  below  the  undercurling  spray, 
white  under  dark  blue — the  blue  growing  paler,  paler 
still,  until  the  white  drops  burst  to  the  top  and  danced 
free  in  the  sun.  A  Greek,  going  home  to  Crete  .to 
marry  a  wife,  made  all  day  long  tiny  boats  of 
coloured  paper,  weighted  with  corks,  and  sailed  them 
down  into  the  sea. 

"They  shall  carry  back  to  America  my  farewells !" 
he  said,  smiling.  "This  to  Pappas,  the  bootblack, 
who  is  my  friend.  This  to  a  girl  back  in  America, 
with  eyes — behold  that  darkest  blue,  my  children; 
so  are  her  eyes!  And  this  black  one  to  my  sister, 
who  has  lost  a  child." 

The  first  class  watched  the  spray  also — as  it  rose 
to  the  lip  of  a  glass. 

Now  at  last  it  seemed  they  would  break  a  record. 
Then  rain  set  in,  without  enough  wind  to  make  a  sea, 
but  requiring  the  starboard  ports  to  be  closed.  The 
Senior  Second,  going  on  duty  at  midnight  that  night, 
found  his  Junior  railing  at  fate  and  the  airpumps 
going. 

"Shut  'em  off!"  said  the  Senior  Second  furiously. 


THE  GAME  337 


"Shut  'em  off  yourself.    I've  tried  it  twice." 

The  Senior  Second  gave  a  lever  a  vicious  tug  and 
the  pump  stopped.  Before  it  had  quite  lapsed  into 
inertia  the  Chief's  bell  rang. 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  demanded  the  Junior  sulkily. 
"The  old  fox!" 

The  Senior  cursed.  Then  he  turned  abruptly  and 
climbed  the  steel  ladder  he  had  just  descended.  The 
Junior,  who  was  anticipating  a  shower  and  bed, 
stared  after  him. 

The  Senior  thought  quickly — that  was  why  he  was 
a  Senior.  He  found  the  Red  Un's  cabin  and  ham- 
mered at  the  door.  Then,  finding  it  was  not  locked, 
he  walked  in.  The  Red  Un  lay  perched  aloft;  the 
shirt  of  his  small  pajamas  had  worked  up  about  his 
neck  and  his  thin  torso  lay  bare.  In  one  hand  he 
clutched  the  dead  end  of  a  cigarette.  The  Senior 
wakened  him  by  running  a  forefinger  down  his  ribs, 
much  as  a  boy  runs  a  stick  along  a  paling  fence. 

"Wha'  ish  it?"  demanded  the  Red  Un  in  sleepy 
soprano.  And  then  "Wha'  d'ye  want?"  in  bass. 
His  voice  was  changing;  he  sounded  like  two  people 
in  animated  discussion  most  of  the  time. 

"You  boys  want  to  earn  a  sovereign?" 

The  Purser's  boy,  who  had  refused  to  rouse  to 
this  point,  sat  up  in  bed. 

"Whaffor?"  he  asked. 

"Get  the  Chief  here  some  way.     You" — to  the 


338 LOVE  STORIES 

Purser's  boy — "go  and  tell  him  the  Red  Un's  ill  and 
asking  for  him.  You" — to  the  Red  Un — "double 
up ;  cry ;  do  something.  Start  him  off  for  the  doctor 
— anything,  so  you  keep  him  ten  minutes  or  so!" 

The  Red  Un  was  still  drowsy,  and  between  sleep- 
ing and  waking  we  are  what  we  are. 

"I  won't  doit !" 

The  Senior  Second  held  out  a  gold  sovereign  on  his 
palm. 

"Don't  be  a  bally  little  ass !"  he  said. 

The  Red  Un,  waking  full,  now  remembered  that 
he  hated  the  Chief;  for  fear  he  did  not  hate  him 
enough,  he  recalled  the  lifebelt,  and  his  legs,  and  the 
girl  laughing. 

"All  right!"  he  said.  "Gwan,  Pimples !  What'll 
I  have  *?    Appendiceetis  ?" 

"Have  a  toothache,"  snapped  the  Senior  Second. 
"Tear  off  a  few  yells — anything  to  keep  him !" 

It  worked  rather  well ;  plots  have  a  way  of  being 
successful  in  direct  proportion  to  their  iniquity.  Be- 
neficent plots,  like  loving  relatives  dressed  as  Santa 
Claus,  frequently  go  wrong;  while  it  has  been  shown 
that  the  leakiest  sort  of  scheme  to  wreck  a  bank  will 
go  through  with  the  band  playing. 

The  Chief  came  and  found  the  Red  Un  in  agony, 
holding  his  jaw.  Owing  to  the  fact  that  he  lay  far 
back  in  an  upper  bunk,  it  took  time  to  drag  him  into 
the  light.    It  took  more  time  to  get  his  mouth  open ; 


THE  GAME  339 


once  open,  the  Red  Un  pointed  to  a  snag  that  should 
have  given  him  trouble  if  it  didn't,  and  set  up  a 
fresh  outcry. 

Not  until  long  after  could  the  Red  Un  recall  with- 
out shame  his  share  in  that  night's  work — recall  the 
Chief,  stubby  hair  erect,  kind  blue  eyes  searching 
anxiously  for  the  offending  tooth.  Recall  it*?  Would 
he  ever  forget  the  arm  the  Chief  put  about  him,  and 
him:    "Ou-ay!  laddie;  it's  a  weeked  snag!" 

The  Chief,  to  whom  God  had  denied  a  son  of  his 
flesh,  had  taken  Red  Un  to  his  heart,  you  see — 
fatherless  wharf-rat  and  childless  engineer;  the  man 
acting  on  the  dour  Scot  principle  of  chastening  whom- 
soever he  loveth,  and  the  boy  cherishing  a  hate  that 
was  really  only  hurt  love. 

And  as  the  Chief,  who  had  dragged  the  Red  Un 
out  of  eternity  and  was  not  minded  to  see  him  die  of 
a  toothache,  took  him  back  to  his  cabin  the  pain  grew 
better,  ceased,  turned  to  fright.  The  ten  minutes  or 
so  were  over  and  what  would  they  find  ?  The  Chief 
opened  the  door;  he  had  in  mind  a  drop  of  whisky 
out  of  the  flask  he  never  touched  on  a  trip — whisky 
might  help  the  tooth. 

On  the  threshold  he  seemed  to  scent  something 
amiss.  He  glanced  at  the  ceiling  over  his  bunk, 
where  the  airtrunk  lay,  and  then — he  looked  at  the 
boy.  He  stooped  down  and  put  a  hand  on  the  boy's 
head,  turning  it  to  the  light. 


340  LOVE  STORIES 

"Tell  me  now,  lad,"  he  said  quietly,  "did  ye  or 
did  ye  no  ha'  the  toothache?" 

"It's  better  now,"  sullenly. 

"Did  ye  or  did  ye  no?" 

"No." 

The  Chief  turned  the  boy  about  and  pushed  him 
through  the  doorway  into  outer  darkness.  He  said 
nothing.  Down  to  his  very  depths  he  was  hurt.  To 
have  lost  the  game  was  something;  but  it  was  more 
than  that.  Had  he  been  a  man  of  words  he  might 
have  said  that  once  again  a  creature  he  loved  had 
turned  on  him  to  his  injury.  Being  a  Scot  and  a 
man  of  few  words  he  merely  said  he  was  damned, 
and  crawled  back  into  bed. 

The  game?  Well,  that  was  simple  enough.  Di- 
rectly over  his  pillow,  in  the  white-painted  airtrunk, 
was  a  brass  plate,  fastened  with  four  screws.  In  case 
of  anything  wrong  with  the  ventilator  the  plate  could 
be  taken  off  for  purposes  of  investigation. 

The  Chief's  scheme  had  been  simplicity  itself — so 
easy  that  the  Seconds,  searching  for  concealed  wires 
and  hidden  alarm  bells,  had  never  thought  of  it. 
On  nights  when  the  air  must  be  pumped,  and  officious 
Seconds  were  only  waiting  the  Chief's  first  sleep 
to  shut  off  steam  and  turn  it  back  to  the  main  engines, 
the  Chief  unlocked  the  bolted  drawer  in  his  desk. 
First  he  took  out  the  woman's  picture  and  gazed  at 
it;  quite  frequently  he  read  the  words  on  the  back 


THE  GAME  341 


— written  out  of  a  sore  heart,  be  sure.  And  then  he 
took  out  the  cigar-box  lid. 

When  he  had  unscrewed  the  brass  plate  over  his 
head  he  replaced  it  with  the  lid  of  the  cigar-box. 
So  long  as  the  pumps  in  the  engine  room  kept  the 
air  moving,  the  lid  stayed  up  by  suction. 

When  the  air  stopped  the  lid  fell  down  on  his 
head ;  he  roused  enough  to  press  a  signal  button  and, 
as  the  air  started  viciously,  to  replace  the  lid.  Then 
off  to  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  the  crafty  again. 
And  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

Of  course  the  game  was  not  over  because  it  was 
discovered  and  the  lid  gone.  There  would  be  other 
lids.  But  the  snap,  the  joy,  was  gone  out  of  it.  It 
would  never  again  be  the  same,  and  the  worst  of  all 
was  the  manner  of  the  betrayal. 

He  slept  but  little  the  remainder  of  the  night; 
and,  because  unrest  travels  best  from  soul  to  soul  at 
night,  when  the  crowding  emotions  of  the  day  give  it 
place,  the  woman  slept  little  also.  She  was  thinking 
of  the  entrance  to  the  stokehole,  where  one  crouched 
under  the  bellies  of  furnaces,  and  where  the  engineer 
on  duty  stood  on  a  pile  of  hot  cinders.  Toward 
morning  her  room  grew  very  close :  the  air  from  the 
ventilator  seemed  to  have  ceased. 

Far  down  in  the  ship,  in  a  breathless  little  cabin 
far  aft,  the  Red  Un  kicked  the  Purser's  boy  and 
cried  himself  to  sleep. 


342  LOVE  STORIES 


The  old  ship  made  a  record  the  next  night  that 
lifted  the  day's  run  to  four  hundred  and  twenty. 
She  was  not  a  greyhound,  you  see.  Generally 
speaking,  she  was  a  nine-day  boat.  She  averaged 
well  under  four  hundred  miles.  The  fast  boats  went 
by  her  and  slid  over  the  edge  of  the  sea,  throwing 
her  bits  of  news  by  wireless  over  a  shoulder,  so  to 
speak. 

The  little  girl's  mother  was  not  a  good  sailor.  She 
sat  almost  all  day  in  a  steamer  chair,  reading  or 
looking  out  over  the  rail.  Each  day  she  tore  off  the 
postal  from  the  top  of  her  menu  and  sent  it  to  the 
girl's  father.  She  missed  him  more  than  she  had 
expected.  He  had  become  a  habit ;  he  was  solid,  de- 
pendable, loyal.    He  had  never  heard  of  the  Chief. 

"Dear  Daddy,"  she  would  write:  "Having  a  splen- 
did voyage  so  far,  but  wish  you  were  here.  The  baby 
is  having  such  a  good  time — so  popular;  and  won  two 
prizes  to-day  at  the  sports!    With  love,  Lily." 

They  were  all  rather  like  that.  She  would  drop 
them  in  the  mailbox,  with  a  tug  of  tenderness  for 
the  man  who  worked  at  home.  Then  she  would  go 
back  to  her  chair  and  watch  the  sea,  and  recall  the 
heat  of  the  engine  room  below,  and  wonder,  won- 
der  

It  had  turned  warm  again ;  the  edges  of  the  horizon 


THE  GAME  343 


were  grey  and  at  night  a  low  mist  lay  over  the 
water.  Rooms  were  stifling,  humid.  The  Red  Un 
discarded  pajamas  and  slept  in  his  skin.  The  engine- 
room  watch  came  up  white  round  the  lips  and 
sprawled  over  the  boat  deck  without  speech.  Things 
were  going  wrong  in  the  Red  Un's  small  world.  The 
Chief  hardly  spoke  to  him — was  grave  and  quiet, 
and  ate  almost  nothing.  The  Red  Un  hated  himself 
unspeakably  and  gave  his  share  of  the  sovereign  to 
the  Purser's  boy. 

The  Chief  was  suffering  from  lack  of  exercise  in 
the  air  as  well  as  other  things.  The  girl's  mother  was 
not  sleeping — what  with  heat  and  the  memories  the 
sea  had  revived.  On  the  fifth  night  out,  while  the 
ship  slept,  these  two  met  on  the  deck  in  the  darkness 
— two  shadows  out  of  the  past.  The  deck  was  dark, 
but  a  ray  from  a  window  touched  his  face  and  she 
knew  him.  He  had  not  needed  light  to  know  her; 
every  line  of  her  was  written  on  his  heart,  and  for 
him  there  was  no  one  at  home  to  hold  in  tender- 
ness. 

"I  think  I  knew  you  were  here  all  the  time,"  she 
said,  and  held  out  both  hands. 

The  Chief  took  one  and  dropped  it.  She  belonged 
to  the  person  at  home.  He  had  no  thought  of  for- 
getting that ! 

"I  saw  your  name  on  the  passenger  list,  but  I  have 
been  very  busy."    He  never  lapsed  into  Scotch  with 


3U  LOVE  STORIES 

her;  she  had  not  liked  it.  "Is  your  husband  with 
you?" 

"He  could  not  come  just  now.  I  have  my  daugh- 
ter." 

Her  voice  fell  rather  flat.  The  Chief  could  not 
think  of  anything  to  say.  Her  child,  and  not  his ! 
He  was  a  one-woman  man,  you  see — and  this  was 
the  woman. 

"I  have  seen  her,"  he  said  presently.  "She's  like 
you,  Lily." 

That  was  a  wrong  move — the  Lily;  for  it  gave  her 
courage  to  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"It  is  so  long  since  we  have  met,"  she  said  wist- 
fully.   "Yesterday,  after  I  saw  the — the  place  where 

you  lived  and — and  work "     She  choked;  she 

was  emotional,  rather  weak.  Having  made  the  situa- 
tion she  should  have  let  it  alone ;  but,  after  all,  it  is 
not  what  the  woman  is,  but  what  the  man  thinks 
she  is. 

The  Chief  stroked  her  fingers  on  his  sleeve. 

"It's  not  bad,  Lily,"  he  said.  "It's  a  man's  job. 
I  like  it." 

"I  believe  you  had  forgotten  me  entirely !" 

The  Chief  winced.  "Isn't  that  the  best  thing  you 
could  wish  me?'  he  said. 

"Are  you  happy?" 

"  'I  ha'  lived  and  I  ha'  worked !'  "  he  quoted 
sturdily. 


THE  GAME  345 


Very  shortly  after  that  he  left  her;  he  made  an 
excuse  of  being  needed  below  and  swung  off,  his  head 
high. 

VI 

They  struck  the  derelict  when  the  mist  was 
thickest,  about  two  that  morning.  The  Red 
Un  was  thrown  out  of  his  berth  and  landed,  stark 
naked,  on  the  floor.  The  Purser's  boy  was  on  the 
floor,  too,  in  a  tangle  of  bedding.  There  was  a  sicken- 
ing silence  for  a  moment,  followed  by  the  sound 
of  opening  doors  and  feet  in  the  passage.  There  was 
very  little  speech.  People  ran  for  the  decks.  The 
Purser's  boy  ran  with  them. 

The  Red  Un  never  thought  of  the  deck.  One  of 
the  axioms  of  the  engine  room  is  that  of  every  man 
to  his  post  in  danger.  The  Red  Un's  post  was  with 
his  Chief.  His  bare  feet  scorched  on  the  steel  ladders 
and  the  hot  floor  plates ;  he  had  on  only  his  trousers, 
held  up  with  a  belt. 

The  trouble  was  in  the  forward  stokehole.  Water 
was  pouring  in  from  the  starboard  side — was  welling 
up  through  the  floor  plates.  The  wound  was  ghast- 
ly, fatal !  The  smouldering  in  the  bunker  had  weak- 
ened resistance  there  and  her  necrosed  ribs  had  given 
away.  The  Red  Un,  scurrying  through  the  tunnel, 
was  met  by  a  maddened   rush   of   trimmers   and 


346 LOVE  STORIES 

stokers.  He  went  down  under  them  and  came  up 
bruised,  bleeding,  battling  for  place. 

"You  skunks!"  he  blubbered.  "You  crazy  cow- 
ards !    Come  back  and  help !" 

A  big  stoker  stopped  and  caught  the  boy's  arm. 

"You  come  on !"  he  gasped.  "The  whole  thing' 11 
go  in  a  minute.    She'll  go  down  by  the  head !" 

He  tried  to  catch  the  boy  up  in  his  arms,  but  the 
Red  Un  struck  him  on  the  nose. 

"Let  me  go,  you  big  stiff!"  he  cried,  and  kicked 
himself  free. 

Not  all  the  men  had  gone.  They  were  working 
like  fiends.  It  was  up  to  the  bulkhead  now.  If  it 
held — if  it  only  held  long  enough  to  get  the  passen- 
gers off! 

Not  an  engineer  thought  of  leaving  his  place, 
though  they  knew,  better  even  than  the  deck  officers, 
how  mortally  the  ship  was  hurt.  They  called  to  their 
aid  every  resource  of  a  business  that  is  nothing  but 
emergencies.  Engines  plus  wit,  plus  the  grace  of 
God — and  the  engines  were  useless.  Wits,  then, 
plus  Providence.  The  pumps  made  no  impression 
on  the  roaring  flood;  they  lifted  floor  plates  to 
strengthen  the  bulkheads  and  worked  until  it  was 
death  to  work  longer.  Then,  fighting  for  every  foot, 
the  little  band  retreated  to  the  after  stokehole.  Lights 
were  out  forward.    The  Chief  was  the  last  to  escape. 


THE  GAME  347 


He  carried  an  oil  lantern,  and  squeezed  through  the 
bulkhead  door  with  a  wall  of  water  behind  him. 

The  Red  Un  cried  out,  but  too  late.  The  Chief, 
blinded  by  his  lantern,  had  stumbled  into  the  pit 
where  a  floor  plate  had  been  lifted.  When  he  found 
his  leg  was  broken  he  cried  to  them  to  go  on  and 
leave  him,  but  they  got  him  out  somehow  and  car- 
ried him  with  them  as  they  fought  and  retreated — 
fought  and  retreated.  He  was  still  the  Chief ;  he  lay 
on  the  floor  propped  up  against  something  and  di- 
rected the  fight.  The  something  he  leaned  against 
was  the  strained  body  of  the  Red  Un,  who  held  him 
up  and  sniffled  shamefaced  tears.  She  was  down 
by  the  head  already  and  rolling  like  a  dying  thing. 
When  the  water  came  into  the  after  stokehole  they 
carried  the  Chief  into  the  engine  room — the  lights 
were  going  there. 

There  had  been  no  panic  on  deck.  There  were 
boats  enough  and  the  lights  gave  every  one  con- 
fidence. It  was  impossible  to  see  the  lights  going 
and  believe  the  ship  doomed.  Those  who  knew  felt 
the  list  of  the  decks  and  hurried  with  the  lowering 
of  the  boats;  the  ones  who  saw  only  the  lights 
wished  to  go  back  to  their  cabins  for  clothing  and 
money. 

The  woman  sat  in  the  Quartermaster's  boat,  with 
her  daughter  in  her  arms,  and  stared  at  the  ship. 
The  Quartermaster  said  the  engineers  were  still  be- 


348 LOVE  STORIES 

low  and  took  off  his  cap.  In  her  feeble  way  the 
woman  tried  to  pray,  and  found  only  childish,  futile 
things  to  say;  but  in  her  mind  there  was  a  great 
wonder — that  they,  who  had  once  been  life  each  to 
the  other,  should  part  thus,  and  that  now,  as  ever, 
the  good  part  was  hers!  The  girl  looked  up  into 
her  mother's  face. 

"The  redhaired  little  boy,  mother — do  you  think 
he  is  safe?" 

"First  off,  likely,"  mumbled  the  Quartermaster 
grimly. 

All  the  passengers  were  off.  Under  the  mist  the 
sea  rose  and  fell  quietly;  the  boats  and  rafts  had 
drawn  off  to  a  safe  distance.  The  Greek,  who  had 
humour  as  well  as  imagination,  kept  up  the  spirits 
of  those  about  him  while  he  held  a  child  in  his 
arms. 

"Shall  we,"  he  inquired  gravely,  "think  you — shall 
we  pay  extra  to  the  company  for  this  excursion?" 

The  battle  below  had  been  fought  and  lost.  It 
was  of  minutes  now.  The  Chief  had  given  the 
order:  "Every  one  for  himself!"  Some  of  the  men 
had  gone,  climbing  to  outer  safety.  The  two  Seconds 
had  refused  to  leave  the  Chief.  All  lights  were  off 
by  that  time.  The  after  stokehole  was  flooded  and 
water  rolled  sickeningly  in  the  engine-pits.  Each  sec- 
ond it  seemed  the  ship  must  take  its  fearful  dive  into 


THE  GAME  349 


the  quiet  sea  that  so  insistently  reached  up  for  her. 
With  infinite  labour  the  Seconds  got  the  Chief  up 
to  the  fiddley,  twenty  feet  or  less  out  of  a  hundred, 
and  straight  ladders  instead  of  a  steel  staircase.  Ten 
men  could  not  have  lifted  him  without  gear,  and 
there  was  not  time! 

Then,  because  the  rest  was  hopeless,  they  left  him 
there,  propped  against  the  wall,  with  the  lantern 
beside  him.  He  shook  hands  with  them;  the  Junior 
was  crying;  the  Senior  went  last,  and  after  he  had 
gone  up  a  little  way  he  turned  and  came  back. 

"I  can't  do  it,  Chief !"  he  said.  "I'll  stick  it  out 
with  you."  But  the  Chief  drove  him  up,  with  the 
name  of  his  wife  and  child.  Far  up  the  shaft  he 
turned  and  looked  down.  The  lantern  glowed  faint- 
ly below. 

The  Chief  sat  alone  on  his  grating.  He  was 
faint  with  pain.  The  blistering  cylinders  were  grow- 
ing cold;  the  steel  floor  beneath  was  awash.  More 
ominous  still,  as  the  ship's  head  sank,  came  crackings 
and  groanings  from  the  engines  below.  They  would 
fall  through  at  the  last,  ripping  out  the  bulkheads 
and  carrying  her  down  bow  first. 

Pain  had  made  the  Chief  rather  dull.  "  1  ha' 
lived  and  I  ha'  worked!'  "  he  said  several  times — 
and  waited  for  the  end.  Into  his  stupor  came  the 
thought  of  the  woman — and  another  thought  of  the 
Red  Un.     Both  of  them  had  sold  him  out,  so  to 


350  LOVE  STORIES 

speak;  but  the  woman  had  grown  up  with  his  heart 
and  the  boy  was  his  by  right  of  salvage — only  he 
thought  of  the  woman  as  he  dreamed  of  her,  not  as 
he  had  seen  her  on  the  deck.  He  grew  rather  con- 
fused, after  a  time,  and  said:  "I  ha'  loved  and  I  ha' 
worked !" 

Just  between  life  and  death  there  comes  a  time 
when  the  fight  seems  a  draw,  or  as  if  each  side,  ex- 
hausted, had  called  a  truce.  There  is  no  more  strug- 
gle, but  it  is  not  yet  death.  The  ship  lay  so.  The 
upreaching  sea  had  not  conquered.  The  result  was 
inevitable,  but  not  yet.  And  in  the  pause  the  Red 
Un  came  back,  came  crawling  down  the  ladder,  his 
indomitable  spirit  driving  his  craven  little  body. 

He  had  got  as  far  as  the  boat  and  safety.  The 
gripping  devils  of  fear  that  had  followed  him  up 
from  the  engine  room  still  hung  to  his  throat;  but 
once  on  deck,  with  the  silent  men  who  were  working 
against  time  and  eternity,  he  found  he  could  not 
do  it.  He  was  the  Chiefs  boy — and  the  Chief  was 
below  and  hurt! 

The  truce  still  held.  As  the  ship  rolled,  water 
washed  about  the  foot  of  the  ladder  and  lapped 
against  the  cylinders.  The  Chief  tried  desperately 
to  drive  him  up  to  the  deck  and  failed. 

"It's  no  place  for  you  alone,"  said  the  Red  Un. 
His  voice  had  lost  its  occasional  soprano  note;  the 
Red  Un  was  a  grown  man.     "I'm  staying!"    And 


THE  GAME  351 


after  a  hesitating  moment  he  put  his  small,  fright- 
ened paw  on  the  Chiefs  arm. 

It  was  that,  perhaps,  that  roused  the  Chief — not 
love  of  life,  but  love  of  the  boy.  To  be  drowned 
like  a  rat  in  a  hole — that  was  not  so  bad  when  one 
had  lived  and  worked.  A  man  may  not  die  better 
than  where  he  has  laboured;  but  this  child,  who 
would  die  with  him  rather  than  live  alone!  The 
Chief  got  up  on  his  usable  knee. 

"I'm  thinking,  laddie,"  he  said,  "we'll  go  fighting 
anyhow." 

The  boy  went  first,  with  the  lantern.  And,  pain- 
ful rung  by  painful  rung,  the  Chief  did  the  impos- 
sible, suffering  hells  as  he  moved.  For  each  foot  he 
gained  the  Red  Un  gained  a  foot — no  more.  What 
he  would  not  have  endured  for  himself,  the  Chief 
suffered  for  the  boy.  Halfway  up,  he  clung,  ex- 
hausted. 

The  boy  leaned  down  and  held  out  his  hand. 

'Til  pull,"  he  said.    "Just  hang  on  to  me." 

Only  once  again  did  he  speak  during  that  end- 
less climb  in  the  silence  of  the  dying  ship,  and  what 
he  said  came  in  gasps.    He  was  pulling  indeed. 

"About — that  airtrunk,"  he  managed  to  say — 
"I'm — sorry,   sir!" 

The  dawn  came  up  out  of  the  sea,  like  resurrection. 
In  the  Quartermaster's  boat  the  woman  slept  heavily, 


352 LOVE  STORIES 

with  tears  on  her  cheeks.  The  Quartermaster  looked 
infinitely  old  and  very  tired  with  living. 

It  was  the  girl,  after  all,  who  spied  them — two 
figures — one  inert  and  almost  lifeless;  one  very  like 
a  bobbing  tomato,  but  revealing  a  blue  face  and 
two  desperate  eyes  above  a  ship's  lifebelt. 

The  Chief  came  to  an  hour  or  so  later  and  found 
the  woman  near,  pale  and  tragic,  and  not  so  young 
as  he  had  kept  her  in  his  heart.  His  eyes  rested  on  hers 
a  moment;  the  bitterness  was  gone,  and  the  ache. 
He  had  died  and  lived  again,  and  what  was  past 
was  past. 

"I  thought,"  said  the  woman  tremulously — "all 
night  I  thought  that  you " 

The  Chief,  coming  to  full  consciousness,  gave  a  lit- 
tle cry.  His  eyes,  travelling  past  hers,  had  happened 
on  a  small  and  languid  youngster  curled  up  at  his 
feet,  asleep.  The  woman  drew  back — as  from  an 
intrusion. 

As  she  watched,  the  Red  Un  yawned,  stretched  and 
sat  up.  His  eyes  met  the  Chiefs,  and  between  them 
passed  such  a  look  of  understanding  as  made  for  the 
two  one  world,  one  victory! 


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MARY  ROBERTS 
RINEHART 


